U  N  I°VE^itl  Tf  •'/ 
Of  ILLINOIS 


I 


LIBRARY 

Of  FHfc 
iiNSVEsSIlV  Ut 


0  ■ 


THE  BLIND  MAN  AT  MES.  BUDGE  S  DOOE. 


[ Page  149, 


DEATH  OF  SIR  JOHN  CHESTER.  C See  pCl(JC  260 


# 


v.O*-'  -  ;  : 

Of  m 

UNIVtKSnY  Of*  ILUNUIJ 


J 


' 


BARNABY  RUDGE. 


BY 

/ 

CHARLES  DICKENS. 


NEW  YORK: 

HA  RPER  &  BROTHERS,  PUBLISHERS, 

FRANKLIN  SQUARE. 

i  8  74. 


PREFACE. 


U'b'oSr- 


The  late  Mr.  Waterton  having,  some  time  ago,  expressed  his  opinion  that  ravens  are  grad¬ 
ually  becoming  extinct  in  England,  I  offered  the  few  following  words  about  my  experience 
of  these  birds. 

The  raven  in  this  story  is  a  compound  of  two  great  originals,  of  whom  I  was,  at  different 
times,  the  proud  possessor.  The  first  was  in  the  bloom  of  his  youth,  when  he  was  discovered 
in  a  modest  retirement  in  London,  by  a  friend  of  mine,  and  given  to  me.  fie  had  from  the 
first,  as  Sir  Hugh  Evans  says  of  Anne  Page,  “good  gifts,”  which  he  improved  by~study  and 
attention  in  a-  most  exemplary  manner.  He  slept  in  a  stable — generally  on  horseback — and 
so  terrified  a  Newfoundland  dog  by  his  preternatural  sagacity,  that  he  has  been  known,  by 
the  mere  superiority  of  his  genius,  to  walk  off  unmolested  with  the  dog’s  dinner,  from  before 
his  face.  He  was  rapidly  rising  in  acquirements  and  virtues,  when,  in  an  evil  hour,  his  stable 
was  newly  painted.  He  observed  the  workmen  closely,  saw  that  they  were  careful  of  the 
paint,  and  immediately  burned  to  possess  it.  On  their  going  to  dinner,  he  ate  up  all  they 
had  left  behind,  consisting  of  a  pound  or  two  of  white-lead ;  and  this  youthful  indiscretion 
terminated  in  death. 

While  I  was  yet  inconsolable  for  his  loss,  another  friend  of  mine  in  Yorkshire  discovered 
an  older  and  more  gifted  raven  at  a  village  public-house,  which  he  prevailed  upon  the  land¬ 
lord  to  part  with  for  a  consideration,  and  sent  up  to  me.  The  first  act  of  this  Sage  was,  to 
administer  to  the  effects  of  his  predecessor,  by  disinterring  all  the  cheese  and  half-pence  he 
had  buried  in  the  garden — a  work  of  immense  labor  and  research,  to  which  he  devoted  all 
the  energies  of  his  mind.  When  he  had  achieved  his  task,  he  applied  himself  to  the  acquisi¬ 
tion  of  stable  language,  in  which  he  soon  became  such  an  adept,  that  he  would  perch  outside 
my  window  and  drive  imaginary  horses  with  great  skill,  all  day.  Perhaps  even  I  never  saw 
34  him  at  his  best,  for  his  former  master  sent  his  duty  with  him,  “and  if  I  wished  the  bird  to 
come  out  very  strong,  would  I  be  so  good  as  to  show  him  a  drunken  man” — which  I  never 
Q-  did,  having  (unfortunately)  none  but  sober  people  at  hand.  But  I  could  hardly  have  respect¬ 
ed  him  more,  whatever  the  stimulating  influences  of  this  sight  might  have  been.  He  had 
not  the  least  respect,  I  am  sorry  to  say,  for  me  in  return,  or  for  any  body  but  the  cook ;  to 
whom  he  was  attached — but  only,  I  fear,  as  a  policeman  might  have  been.  Once,  I  met  him 
unexpectedly,  about  half  a  mile  from  my  house,  walking  down  the  middle  of  a  public  street, 
\  attended  by  a  pretty  large  crowd,  and  spontaneously  exhibiting  the  whole  of  his  accomplish¬ 
ments.  His  gravity  under  those  trying  circumstances  I  can  never  forget,  nor  the  extraor- 
dinary  gallantry  with  which,  refusing  to  be  brought  home,  he  defended  himself  behind  a 
pump,  until  overpowered  by  numbers.  It  may  have  been  that  he  was  too  bright  a  genius 
^to  live  long,  or  it  may  have  been  that  he  took  some  pernicious  substance  into  his  bill,  and 
"  thence  into  his  maw — which  is  not  improbable,  seeing  that  he  new-pointed  the  greater  part 

-  of  the  garden-wall  by  digging  out  the  mortar,  broke  countless  squares  of  glass  by  scraping 

-  away  the  putty  all  round  the  frames,  and  tore  up  and  swallowed,  in  splinters,  the  greater 
part  of  a  wooden  staircase  of  six  steps  and  a  landing — but  after  some  three  years  he  too  was 
taken  ill,  and  died  before  the  kitchen  fire.  He  kept  his  eye  to  the  last  upon  the  meat  as  it 

I  161783 


1 

Of 


6 


PH  E  FACE. 


roasted,  and  suddenly  turned  over  on  his  back  with  a  sepulchral  cry  of  “  Cuckoo !”  Since 
then  I  have  been  ravenless. 

Xo  account  of  the  Gordon  Riots  have  been  to  my  knowledge  introduced  into  any  Work 
of  Fiction,  and  the  subject  presenting  very  extraordinary  and  remarkable  features,  I  was  led 
to  project  this  Tale. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say,  that  those  shameful  tumults,  while  they  reflect  indelible  disgrace 
upon  the  time  in  which  they  occurred,  and  all  who  had  act  or  part  in  them,  teach  a  good  les¬ 
son.  That  what  we  falsely  call  a  religious  cry  is  easily  raised  by  men  who  have  no  religion, 
and  who  in  their  daily  practice  set  at  naught  the  commonest  principles  of  right  and  wrong ; 
that  it  is  begotten  of  intolerance  and  persecution ;  that  it  is  senseless,  besotted,  inveterate, 
and  unmerciful ;  all  History  teaches  us.  But  perhaps  we  do  not  know  it  in  our  hearts  too 
well,  to  profit  by  even  so  humble  an  example  as  the  “Xo  Popery”  riots  of  Seventeen  Hun¬ 
dred  and  Eighty. 

However  imperfectly  those  disturbances  are  set  forth  in  the  following  pages,  they  are 
impartially  painted  by  one  who  has  no  sympathy  with  the  Romish  Church,  though  he  ac¬ 
knowledges,  as  most  men  do,  some  esteemed  friends  among  the  followers  of  its  creed. 

In  the  description  of  the  principal  outrages,  reference  has  been  had  to  the  best  authori¬ 
ties  of  that  time,  such  as  they  are ;  the  account  given  in  this  Tale,  of  all  the  main  features  of 
the  Riots,  is  substantially  correct ;  their  cost  in  money  through  destruction  of  property  is 
stated  at  a  low  sum,  not  extending  beyond  the  amount  of  compensation  actually  paid. 

Mr.  Dennis’s  allusions  to  the  flourishing  condition  of  his  trade  in  those  days,  have  their 
foundation  in  Truth,  and  not  in  the  Author’s  fancy.  Any  file  of  old  Xewspapers,  or  odd 
volume  of  the  Annual  Register,  will  prove  this  with  terrible  ease. 

Even  the  case  of  Mary  Jones,  dwelt  upon  with  so  much  pleasure  by  the  same  character, 
is  no  effort  of  invention.  The  facts  were  stated,  exactly  as  they  are  stated  here,  in  the  House 
of  Commons.  Whether  they  afforded  as  much  entertainment  to  the  merry  gentlemen  assem¬ 
bled  here,  as  some  other  most  affecting  circumstances  of  a  similar  nature  mentioned  by  Sir 
Samuel  Romilly,  is  not  recorded. 

That  the  case  of  Mary  Jones  may  speak  the  more  emphatically  for  itself,  I  subjoin  it,  as 
related  by  Sir  William  Meeedith  in  a  speech  in  Parliament,  “  on  Frequent  Executions,” 
made  in  1777. 

“Under  this  act,”  the  Shop-lifting  Act,  “one  Mary  Jones  was  executed,  whose  case  I  shall 
just  mention ;  it  was  at  the  time  when  press  warrants  were  issued,  on  the  alarm  about  Falk¬ 
land  Islands.  The  woman’s  husband  was  pressed,  their  goods  seized  for  some  debts  of  his, 
and  she,  with  two  small  children,  turned  into  the  streets  a-begging.  It  is  a  circumstance  not 
to  be  forgotten,  that  she  was  very  young  (under  nineteen),  and  most  remarkably  handsome. 
She  went  to  a  linen-draper’s  shop,  took  some  coarse  linen  off  the  counter,  and  slipped  it  under 
her  cloak ;  the  shop-man  saw  her,  and  she  laid  it  down  :  for  this  she  was  hanged.  Her  de¬ 
fense  was  (I  have  the  trial  in  my  pocket), 4  that  she  had  lived  in  credit,  and  wanted  for  nothing, 
till  a  press-gang  came  and  stole  her  husband  from  her;  but  since  then,  she  had  no  bed  to  lie 
on;  nothing  to  give  her  children  to  eat;  and  they  were  almost  naked;  and  perhaps  she 
might  have  done  something  wrong,  for  she  hardly  knew  what  she  did.’  The  parish  officers 
testified  the  truth  of  this  story ;  but  it  seems,  there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  shop-lifting  about 
Ludgate ;  an  example  was  thought  necessary ;  and  this  woman  was  hanged  for  the  comfort 
and  satisfaction  of  shop-keepers  in  Ludgate  Street.  When  brought  to  receive  sentence,  she 
behaved  in  such  a  frantic  manner,  as  proved  her  mind  to  be  in  a  distracted  and  desponding 
state;  and  the  child  was  suckling  at  her  breast  when  she  set  out  for  Tyburn.” 


Barnaby  Rudge 


CHAPTER  I. 

IN  tlie  year  1775,  there  stood  upon  the  borders  of 
Epping  Forest,  at  a  distance  of  abont  twelve 
miles  from  London — measuring  from  the  Standard 
in  Cornhill,  or  rather  from  the  spot  on  or  near  to 
which  the  Standard  used  to  be  in  days  of  yore — a 
house  of  public  entertainment  called  the  Maypole ; 
which  fact  was  demonstrated  to  all  such  travelers 
as  could  neither  read  nor  write  (and  at  that  time  a 
vast  number  both  of  travelers  and  stay-at-homes 
were  in  this  condition)  by  the  emblem  reared  on  the 
road-side  over  against  the  house,  which,  if  not  of 
those  goodly  proportions  that  Maypoles  were  wont 
to  present  in  olden  times,  was  a  fair  young  ash,  thir¬ 
ty  feet  in  height,  and  straight  as  any  arrow  that 
ever  English  yeoman  drew. 

The  Maypole — by  which  term  from  henceforth  is 
meant  the  house,  and  not  its  sign — the  Maypole  was 
an  old  building,  with  more  gable  ends  than  a  lazv 
man  would  care  to  count  on  a  sunny  day  ;  huge  zig¬ 
zag  chimneys,  out  of  which  it  seemed  as  though  even 
smoke  could  not  choose  but  come  in  more  than  nat¬ 


urally  fantastic  shapes,  imparted  to  it  in  its  tortu¬ 
ous  progress ;  and  vast  stables,  gloomy,  ruinous,  and 
empty.  The  place  was  said  to  have  been  built  in 
the  days  of  King  Henry  the  Eighth ;  and  there  was 
a  legend,  not  only  that  Queen  Elizabeth  had  slept 
there  one  night  while  upon  a  hunting  excursion,  to 
wit,  in  a  certain  oak-paneled  room  with  a  deep  bay- 
window,  but  that  next  morning,  while  standing  on 
a  mounting-block  before  the  door  with  one  foot  in 
the  stirrup,  the  virgin  monarch  had  then  and  there 
boxed  and  ended  an  unlucky  page  for  some  neglect 
of  duty.  The  matter-of-fact  and  donbtfnl  folks,  of 
whom  there  were  a  few  among  the  Maypole  custom¬ 
ers,  as  unluckilv  there  alwavs  are  in  every  little  com- 
munity,  were  inclined  to  look  upon  this  tradition  as 
rather  .apocryphal ;  but,  whenever  the  laudlord  of 
that  ancient  hostelry  appealed  to  the  mounting- 
block  itself  as  evidence,  and  triumphantly  pointed 
out  that  there  it  stood  in  the  same  place  to  that 
very  day,  the  doubters  never  failed  to  be  put  down 
by  a  large  majority,  and  all  true  believers  exulted 
as  in  a  victory. 

Whether  these,  and  many  other  stories  of  the  like 


8 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


nature,  were  true  or  untrue,  the  Maypole  was  really 
an  old  house,  a  very  old  house,  perhaps  as  old  as  it 
claimed  to  he,  and  perhaps  older,  which  will  some¬ 
times  happen  with  houses  of  an  uncertain,  as  with 
ladies  of  a  certain,  age.  Its  windows  were  old  dia¬ 
mond-pane  lattices,  its  floors  were  sunken  and  un¬ 
even,  its  ceilings  blackened  by  the  hand  of  time,  and 
heavy  with  massive  beams.  Over  the  door-way  was 
an  ancient  porch,  quaintly  and  grotesquely  carved ; 
and  here  on  summer  evenings  the  more  favored  cus¬ 
tomers  smoked  and  drank — ay,  and  sang  many  a 
good  song  too,  sometimes — reposing  on  two  grim- 
looking  high -hacked  settles,  which,  like  the  twin 
dragons  of  some  fairy  tale,  guarded  the  entrance  to 
the  mansion. 

In  the  chimneys  of  the  disused  rooms  swallows 
had  built  their  nests  for  many  a  long  year,  and  from 
earliest  spriiig  to  latest  autumn  whole  colonies  of 
sparrows  chirped  and  twittered  in  the  eaves.  There 
were  more  pigeons  about  the  dreary  stable-yard  and 
out-buildings  than  any  body  hut  the  landlord  could 
reckon  up.  The  wheeling  and  circling  flights  of 
runts,  fan-tails,  tumblers,  and  pouters,  were  perhaps 
not  quite  consistent  with  the  grave  and  sober  char¬ 
acter  of  the  building,  but  the  monotonous  cooing, 
which  never  ceased  to  be  raised  by  some  among 
them  all  day  long,  suited  it  exactly,  and  seemed  to 
lull  it  to  rest.  With  its  overhanging  stories,  drowsy 
little  panes  of  glass,  and  front  bulging  out  and  pro¬ 
jecting  over  the  pathway,  the  old  house  looked  as 
if  it  were  nodding  in  its  sleep.  Indeed,  it  needed 
no  very  great  stretch  of  fancy  to  detect  in  it  other 
resemblances  to  humanity.  The  bricks  of  which  it 
was  built  had  originally  been  a  deep  dark  red,  but 
had  grown  yellow  and  discolored  like  an  old  man’s 
skin ;  the  sturdy  timbers  had  decayed  like  teeth ; 
and  here  and  there  the  ivy,  like  a  warm  garment  to 
comfort  it  in  its  age,  wrapped  its  green  leaves  close¬ 
ly  round  the  time-worn  walls. 

It  was  a  hale  and  hearty  age,  though,  still ;  and 
in  the  summer  or  autumn  evenings,  when  the  glow 
of  the  setting  sun  fell  upon  the  oak  and  chestnut 
trees  of  the  adjacent  forest,  the  old  house,  partaking 
of  its  lustre,  seemed  their  fit  companion,  and  to  have 
many  good  years  of  life  in  him  yet. 

The  evening  with  which  we  have  to  do  was  nei¬ 
ther  a  summernor  an  autumn  one,  but  the  twilight 
of  a  day  in  March,  when  the  wind  howled  dismally 
among  the  bare  branches  of  the  trees,  and  rumbling 
in  the  wide  chimneys  and  driving  the  rain  against 
the  windows  of  the  Maypole  Inn,  gave  such  of  its 
frequenters  as  chanced  to  be  there  at  the  moment 
an  undeniable  reason  for  prolonging  their  stay,  and 
caused  the  landlord  to  prophesy  that  the  night  would 
certainly  clear  at  eleven  o’clock  precisely,  which,  by 
a  remarkable  coincidence,  was  the  hour  at  which  he 
always  closed  his  house. 

The  name  of  him  upon  whom  the  spirit  of  proph¬ 
ecy  thus  descended  was  John  Willet,  a  burly,  large¬ 
headed  man  with  a  fat  face,  which  betokened  pro¬ 
found  obstinacy  and  slowness  of  apprehension,  com¬ 
bined  with  a  very  strong  reliance  upon  his  own  mer¬ 
its.  It  was  John  Willet’s  ordinary  boast  in  his  more 
placid  moods  that  if  he  were  slow  he  was  su|e ;  which 
assertion  could,  in  one  sense  at  least,  be  by  no  means 
gainsaid,  seeing  that  he  was  in  every  thing  unques¬ 


tionably  the  reverse  of  fast,  and  withal  one  of  the 
most  dogged  and  positive  fellows  in  existence — al¬ 
ways  sure  that  what  he  thought  or  -said  or  did  was 
right,  and  holding  it  as  a  thing  quite  settled  and  or¬ 
dained  by  the  laws  of  nature  and  Providence,  that 
any  body  who  said  or  did  or  thought  otherwise  must 
be  inevitably  and  of  necessity  wrong. 

Mr.  Willet  walked  slowly  up  to  the  window,  flat¬ 
tened  his  fat  nose  against  the  cold  glass,  and  shad¬ 
ing  his  eyes  that  his  sight  might  not  be  affected  by 
the  ruddy  glow  of  the  fire,  looked  abroad.  Then  he 
walked  slowly  back  to  his  old  seat  in  the  chimney- 
corner,  and,  composing  himself  in  it  with  a  slight 
shiver,  such  as  a  man  might  give  way  to  and  so  ac¬ 
quire  an  additional  relish  for  the  warm  blaze,  said, 
looking  round  upon  his  guests, 

“  It’ll  clear  at  eleven  o’clock.  No  sooner  and  no 
later.  Not  before  and  not  arterward.” 

“  How  do  you  make  out  that  ?”  said  a  little  man 
in  the  opposite  corner.  “  The  moon  is  past  the  full, 
and  she  rises  at  nine.” 

John  looked  sedately  and  solemnly  at  his  ques¬ 
tioner  until  he  had  brought  his  mind  to  bear  upon 
the  whole  of  his  observation,  and  then  made  answer, 
in  a  tone  which  seemed  to  imply  that  the  moon  was 
peculiarly  his  business  and  nobody  else’s, 

“Never  you  mind  about  the  moon.  Don’t  you 
trouble  yourself  about  her.  You  let  the  moon  alone, 
and  I’ll  let  you  alone.” 

“No  offense  I  hope?”  said  the  little  man. 

Again  John  waited  leisurely  until  the  observation 
had  thoroughly  penetrated  to  his  brain,  and  then 
replying,  “ No  offense  as  yet,”  applied  a  light  to  his 
pipe  and  smoked  in  placid  silence;  now  and  then 
casting  a  sidelong  look  at  a  man  wrapped  in  a  loose 
riding-coat  with  huge  cuffs  ornamented  with  tar¬ 
nished  silver  lace  and  large  metal  buttons,  who  sat 
apart  from  the  regular  frequenters  of  the  house,  and 
wearing  a  hat  flapped  over  his  face,  which  was  still 
further  shaded  by  the  hand  on  which  his  forehead 
rested,  looked  unsociable  enough. 

There  was  another  guest,  who  sat,  booted  and 
spurred,  at  some  distance  from  the  fire  also,  and 
whose  thoughts — to  judge  from  his  folded  arms  and 
knitted  brows,  and  from  the  untasted  liquor  before 
him — were  occupied  with  other  matters  than  the 
topics  under  discussion  or  the  persons  who  discussed 
them.  This  was  a  young  man  of  about  eight-and- 
twenty,  rather  above  the  middle  height,  aud  though 
of  a  somewhat  slight  figure,  gracefully  aud  strongly 
made.  He  wore  his  own  dark  hair,  and  was  accou¬ 
tred  in  a  riding-dress,  which  together  with  his  large 
boots  (resembling  in  shape  and  fashion  those  worn 
by  our  Life  Guardsmen  at  the  present  day),  showed 
indisputable  traces  of  the  bad  condition  of  the  roads. 
But  travel-stained  though  he  was,  he  was  well  and 
even  richly  attired,  and  without  being  overdressed 
looked  a  gallant  gentleman. 

Lying  upon  the  table  beside  him,  as  he  had  care¬ 
lessly  thrown  them  down,  were  a  heavy  riding-whip 
and  a  slouched  hat,  the  latter  worn  no  doubt  as  being 
best  suited  to  the  inclemency  of  the  weather.  There, 
too,  were  a  pair  of  pistols  in  a  holster-case,  and  a 
short  riding-cloak.  Little  of  his  face  was  visible, 
except  the  long  dark  lashes  which  concealed  his 
downcast  eyes,  but  an  air  of  careless  ease  aud  nat- 


MAYPOLE  COMPANY. 


9 


ural  gracefulness  of  demeanor  pervaded  the  figure, 
aud  seemed  to  comprehend  even  those  slight  acces¬ 
sories,  which  were  all  handsome,  and  in  good  keep¬ 
ing. 

Toward  this  young  gentleman  the  eyes  of  Mr. 
Willet  wandered  but  once,  and  then  as  if  in  mute 
inquiry  whether  he  had  observed  his  silent  neigh¬ 
bor.  It  was  plain  that  John  and  the  young  gentle¬ 
man  had  often  met  before.  Finding  that  his  look 
was  not  returned,  or  indeed  observed  by  the  person 
to  whom  it  was  addressed,  John  gradually  concen¬ 
trated  the  whole  power  of  his  eyes  into  one  focus, 
and  brought  it  to  bear  upon  the  man  in  the  flapped 
hat,  at  whom  he  came  to  stare  in  course  of  time 
with  an  intensity  so  remarkable,  that  it  affected  his 
fireside  cronies,  who  all,  as  with  one  accord,  took 
their  pipes  from  their  lips,  and  stared  with  open 
mouths  at  the  stranger  likewise. 

The  sturdy  landlord  had  a  large  pair  of  dull  fish¬ 
like  eyes,  and  the  little  man  who  had  hazarded  the 
remark  about  the  moon  (and  who  was  the  parish- 
clerk  and  bell-ringer  of  Chigwell;  a  village  hard 
by)  had  little  round  black  shiny  eyes  like  beads ; 
moreover  this  little  man  wore  at  the  knees  of  his 
rusty  black  breeches,  and  on  his  rusty  black  coat, 
and  all  down  his  long  flapped  waistcoat,  little  queer 
buttons  like  nothing  except  his  eyes ;  but  so  like 
them,  that  as  they  twinkled  and  glistened  in  the 
light  of  the  fire,  which  shone  too  in  his  bright  shoe- 
buckles,  he  seemed  all  eyes  from  head  to  foot,  and  to 
be  gazing  with  every  one  of  them  at  the  unknown 
customer.  No  wonder  that  a  man  should  grow 
restless  under  such  an  inspection  as  this,  to  say 
nothing  of  the  eyes  belonging  to  short  Tom  Cobb 
the  general  chandler  and  post-office  keeper,  and  long 
Phil  Parkes  the  ranger,  both  of  whom,  infected  by 
the  example  of  their  companions,  regarded  him  of 
the  flapped  hat  no  less  attentively. 

The  stranger  became  restless ;  perhaps  from  being 
exposed  to  this  rakiug  fire  of  eyes,  perhaps  from  the 
nature  of  his  previous  meditations — most  probably 
from  the  latter  cause,  for  as  he  changed  his  position 
and  looked  hastily  round,  he  started  to  find  himself 
the  object  of  such  keen  regard,  and  darted  an  angry 
and  suspicious  glance  at  the  fireside  group.  It  had 
the  effect  of  immediately  diverting  all  eyes  to  the 
chimney,  except  those  of  John  Willet,  who  finding 
himself,  as  it  were,  caught  in  the  fact,  and  not  being 
(as  has  been  already  observed)  of  a  very  ready  na¬ 
ture,  remained  staring  at  his  guest  in  a  particularly 
awkward  and  disconcerted  manner. 

“Well?”  said  the  stranger. 

Well.  There  was  not  much  in  well.  It  was  not 
a  long  speech.  “  I  thought  you  gave  an  order,”  said 
the  landlord,  after  a  pause  of  two  or  three  minutes 
for  consideration. 

The  stranger  took  off  his  hat  and  disclosed  the 
hard  features  of  a  man  of  sixty  or  thereabouts,  much 
weather-beaten  and  worn  by  time,  and  the  naturally 
harsh  expression  of  which  was  not  improved  by  a 
dark  handkerchief  which  was  bound  tightly  round 
his  head,  and,  while  it  served  the  purpose  of  a  wig, 
shaded  his  forehead,  and  almost  hid  his  eyebrows, 
‘if  it  were  intended  to  conceal  or  divert  attention 
from  a  deep  gash,  now  healed  into  an  ugly  seam, 
which  when  it  was  first  inflicted  must  have  laid 


bare  his  cheekbone,  the  object  was  but  indifferently 
attained,  for  it  could  scarcely  fail  to  be  noted  at  a 
glance.  His  complexion  was  of  a  cadaverous  hue, 
and  he  had  a  grizzly,  jagged  beard  of  some  three 
weeks’  date.  Such  was  the  figure  (very  meanly  and 
poorly  clad)  that  now  rose  from  the  seat,  and  stalk¬ 
ing  across  the  room  sat  down  in  a  corner  of  the 
chimney,  which  the  politeness  or  fears  of  the  little 
clerk  very  readily  assigned  to  him. 

“A  highwayman!”  whispered  Tom  Cobb  to  Parkes 
the  ranger. 

“  Do  you  suppose  highwaymen  don’t  dress  hand¬ 
somer  than  that?”  replied  Parkes.  “It’s  a  better 
business  than  you  think  for,  Tom,  and  highwaymen 
don’t  need  or  use  to  be  shabby,  take  my  word  for  it.” 

Meanwhile  the  subject  of  their  speculations  had 
done  due  honor  to  the  house  by  calling  for  some 
drink,  which  was  promptly  supplied  by  the  land¬ 
lord’s  son  Joe,  a  broad-shouldered,  strapping  young- 
fellow  of  twenty,  whom  it  pleased  his  father  still 
to  consider  a  little  boy,  and  to  treat  accordingly. 
Stretching  out  his  hands  to  warm  them  by  the  blaz¬ 
ing  fire,  the  man  turned  his  head  toward  the  com¬ 
pany,  and  after  running  his  eye  sharply  over  them, 
said,  in  a  voice  well  suited  to  his  appearance, 

“  What  house  is  that  which  stands  a  mile  or  so 
from  here  ?” 

“  Public-house  ?”  said  the  landlord,  with  his  usual 
deliberation. 

“ Public-house,  father !”  exclaimed  Joe,  “where’s 
the  public-house  within  a  mile  or  so  of  the  Maypole  ? 
He  means  the  great  house — the  Warren — naturally 
and  of  course.  The  old  red  brick  house,  sir,  that 
stands  in  its  own  grounds — ?” 

“Ay,”  said  the  stranger. 

“And  that  fifteen  or  twenty  years  ago  stood  in  a 
park  five  times  as  broad,  which  with  other  and  rich¬ 
er  property  has  bit  by  bit  changed  hands  and  dwin¬ 
dled  away — more’s  the  pity!”  imrsued  the  young- 
man. 

“  Maybe,”  was  the  reply.  “  But  my  question  re¬ 
lated  to  the  owner.  What  it  has  been  I  don’t  care 
to  know,  and  what  it  is  I  can  see  for  myself.” 

The  heir-apparent  to  the  Maypole  pressed  his  fin¬ 
ger  on  his  lips,  and  glancing  at  the  young  gentleman 
already  noticed,  who  had  changed  his  attitude  when 
the  house  was  first  mentioned,  replied  in  a  lower 
tone, 

“  The  owner’s  name  is  Haredale,Mr.  Geoffrey  Hare- 
dale,  and  ” — again  he  glanced  in  the  same  direction 
as  before — “and  a  worthy  gentleman^too — hem  !” 

Paying  as  little  regard  to  this  admonitory  cough, 
as  to  the  significant  gesture  that  had  preceded  it, 
the  stranger  pursued  his  questioning. 

“I  turned  out  of  my  way  coming  here,  and  took 
the  footpath  that  crosses  the  grounds.  Who  was 
the  young  lady  that  I  saw  entering  a  carriage  ?  His 
daughter  ?” 

“  Why,  how  should  I  know,  honest  man?”  replied 
Joe,  contriving,  in  the  course  of  some  arrangements 
about  the  hearth,  to  advance  close  to  his  questioner 
and  pluck  him  by  the  sleeve,  “7  didn’t  see  the  young 
lady  you  know.  Whew !  There’s  the  wind  again — 
and  rain — well  it  is  a  night !” 

“Rough  weather  indeed!”  observed  the  strange 
man. 


10 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


“  You’re  used  to  it  ?”  said  Joe,  catching  at  any 
thing  which  seemed  to  promise  a  diversion  of  the 
subject. 

“  Pretty  well,”  returned  the  other.  “About  the 
young  lady — has  Mr.  Haredale  a  daughter?” 

“No,  no,”  said  the  young  fellow,  fretfully,  “he’s 
a  single  gentleman — he’s — be  quiet,  can’t  you,  man  ? 
Don’t  you  see  this  talk  is  not  relished  yonder  ?” 

Regardless  of  this  whispered  remonstrance,  and 
affecting  not  to  hear  it,  his  tormentor  provokingly 
continued, 

“  Single  men  have  had  daughters  before  now. 
Perhaps  she  may  be  his  daughter,  though  he  is  not 
married.” 

“What  do  you  mean,”  said  Joe,  adding  in  an  un¬ 
der-tone,  as  he  approached  him  again,  “you’ll  come 
in  for  it  presently,  I  know  you  will !” 

“I  meau  no  harm,”  returned  the  traveler, boldly, 
“and  have  said  none  that  I  know  of.  I  ask  a  few 
questions — as  any  stranger  may,  and  not  unnatural¬ 
ly — about  the  inmates  of  a  remarkable  house  in  a 
neighborhood  which  is  new  to  me,  and  you  are  as 
aghast  aud  disturbed  as  if  I  were  talking  treason 
against  King  George.  Perhaps  you  can  tell  me  why, 
sir,  for  (as  I  say)  I  am  a  stranger,  and  this  is  Greek 
to  me?” 

The  latter  observation  was  addressed  to  the  ob¬ 
vious  cause  of  Joe  Willet’s  discomposure,  who  had 
risen  and  was  adjusting  his  riding-cloak  preparatory 
to  sallying  abroad.  Briefly  replying  that  he  could 
give  him  no  information,  the  young  man  beckoned 
to  Joe,  and  handing  him  a  piece  of  money  in  pay¬ 
ment  of  his  reckoning,  hurried  out  attended  by  young 
Willet  himself,  who  taking  up  a  candle  followed  to 
light  him  to  the  house  door. 

While  Joe  was  absent  on  this  errand,  the  elder 
Willet  and  his  three  companions  continued  to  smoke 
with  profound  gravity,  and  in  a  deep  silence,  each 
having  his  eyes  fixed  on  a  huge  copper  boiler  that 
was  suspended  over  the  fire.  After  some  time  John 
Willet  slowly  shook  his  head,  and  thereupon  his 
friends  slowly  shook  theirs ;  but  no  man  withdrew 
his  eyes  from  the  boiler,  or  altered  the  solemn  ex¬ 
pression  of  his  countenance  in  the  slightest  degree. 

At  length  Joe  returned — very  talkative  and  con¬ 
ciliatory,  as  though  with  a  strong  presentiment  that 
he  was  going  to  be  found  fault  with. 

“  Such  a  thing  as  love  is !”  he  said,  drawing  a 
chair  near  the  fire,  and  looking  round  for  sympathy. 
“He  has  set  off  to  walk  to  London — all  the  way 
to  London.  His  nag  gone  lame  in  riding  out  here 
this  blessed  afternoon,  and  comfortably  littered  down 
in  our  stable  at  this  minute ;  and  he  giving  up  a 
good  hot  supper  and  our  best  bed,  because  Miss 
Haredale  has  gone  to  a  masquerade  up  in  town,  and 
he  has  set  his  heart  upon  seeing  her !  I  don’t  think 
I  could  persuade  myself  to  do  that,  beautiful  as  she 
is — but  then  I’m  not  in  love  (at  least  I  don’t  think 
I  am),  and  that’s  the  whole  difference.” 

“  He  is  in  love,  then  ?”  said  the  stranger. 

“  Rather,”  replied  Joe.  “  He’ll  never  be  more  in 
love,  and  may  very  easily  be  less.” 

“  Silence,  sir !”  cried  his  father. 

“  What  a  chap  you  are,  Joe !”  said  Long  Parkes. 

“  Such  a  inconsiderate  lad!”  murmured  Tom  Cobb. 

“  Putting  himself  forward  and  wringing  the  very 


nose  off  his  own  father’s  face  !”  exclaimed  the  parish- 
clerk,  metaphorically. 

“  What  have  I  done  ?”  reasoned  poor  Joe. 

“Silence,  sir!”  returned  his  father,  “what  do  you 
mean  by  talking,  when  you  see  people  that  are  more 
than  two  or  three  times  your  age,  sitting  still  and 
silent  and  not  dreaming  of  saying  a  word  ?” 

“Why  that’s  the  proper  time  for  me  to  talk,  isn’t 
it  ?”  said  Joe,  rebelliously. 

“  The  proper  time,  sir !”  retorted  his  father,  “  the 
proper  time’s  no  time.” 

“Ah  to  be  sure !”  muttered  Parkes,  nodding  grave¬ 
ly  to  the  other  two,  who  nodded  likewise,  observing 
under  their  breaths  that  that  was  the  point. 

“The  proper  time’s  no  time,  sir,”  repeated  John 
Willet ;  “  when  I  was  your  age  I  never  talked,  I 
never  wanted  to  talk.  I  listened  and  improved  my¬ 
self,  that’s  what  I  did.” 

“And  you’d  find  your  father  rather  a  tough  cus¬ 
tomer  in  argeyment,  Joe,  if  any  body  was  to  try  and 
tackle  him,”  said  Parkes. 

“  For  the  matter  o’  that,  Phil !”  observed  Mr.  Wil¬ 
let,  blowing  a  long,  thin,  spiral  cloud  of  smoke  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  and  staring  at  it  abstract¬ 
edly  as  it  floated  away ;  “  for  the  matter  o’  that,  Phil, 
argeyment  is  a  gift  of  Natur.  If  Natur  has  gifted  a 
man  with  powers  of  argeyment,  a  man  has  a  right  to 
make  the  best  of  ’em,  and  has  not  a  right  to  stand 
on  false  delicacy,  and  deny  that  he  is  so  gifted ;  for 
that  is  a  turning  of  his  back  on  Natur,  a  flouting  of 
her,  a  slighting  of  her  precious  caskets,  and  a  prov¬ 
ing  of  one’s  self  to  be  a  swine  that  isn’t  worth  her 
scattering  pearls  before.” 

The  landlord  pausing  here  for  a  very  long  time, 
Mr.  Parkes  naturally  concluded  that  he  had  brought 
his  discourse  to  an  end ;  and  therefore,  turning  to 
the  young  man  with  some  austerity,  exclaimed, 

“You  hear  what  your  father  says,  Joe?  You 
wouldn’t  much  like  to  tackle  him  in  argeyment,  I’m 
thinking,  sir.” 

“  If,”  said  John  Willet,  turning  his  eyes  from  the 
ceiling  to  the  face  of  his  interrupter,  and  uttering 
the  monosyllable  in  capitals,  to  apprise  him  that  he 
had  put  in  his  oar,  as  the  vulgar  say,  with  unbecom¬ 
ing  and  irreverent  haste ;  “  if,  sir,  Natur  has  fixed 
upon  me  the  gift  of  argeyment,  why  should  I  not 
own  to  it,  and  rather  glory  in  the  same  ?  Yes,  sir,  I 
am  a  tough  customer  that  way.  You  are  right,  sir. 
My  toughness  has  been  proved,  sir,  in  this  room  many 
and  many  a  time,  as  I  think  you  know  ;  aud  if  you 
don’t  know,”  added  John,  putting  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth  again,  “  so  much  the  better,  for  I  an’t  proud, 
and  am  not  going  to  tell  you.” 

A  general  murmur  from  his  three  cronies,  and  a 
general  shaking  of  heads  at  the  copper  boiler,  as¬ 
sured  Johu  Willet  that  they  had  had  good  experi¬ 
ence  of  his  powers  and  needed  no  further  evidence 
to  assure  them  of  his  superiority.  John  smoked 
with  a  little  more  dignity  and  surveyed  them  in  si¬ 
lence. 

“It’s  all  very  fine  talking,”  muttered  Joe,  who 
had  been  fidgeting  in  his  chair  with  divers  uneasy 
gestures.  “But  if  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I’m 
never  to  open  my  lips — ” 

“  Silence,  sir !”  roared  his  father.  “  No,  you  never 
are.  When  your  opinion’s  wanted,  you  give  it. 


THE  MAYPOLE  STORY. 


11 


When  you’re  spoke  to,  you  speak.  When  your  opin¬ 
ion’s  not  wanted  and  you’re  not  spoke  to,  don’t  give 
an  opinion  and  don’t  you  speak.  The  world’s  un¬ 
dergone  a  nice  alteration  since  my  time,  certainly. 
My  belief  is  that  there  an’t  any  boys  left — that  there 
isn’t  such  a  thing  as  a  boy — that  there’s  nothing 
now  between  a  male  baby  and  a  man— and  that  all 
the  boys  went  out  with  his  blessed  Majesty  King 
George  the  Second.” 

“  That’s  a  very  true  observation,  always  except¬ 
ing  the  young  princes,”  said  the  parish  clerk,  who, 
as  the  representative  of  Church  and  State  in  that 
company,  held  himself  bound  to  the  nicest  loyalty. 
“  If  it’s  godly  and  righteous  for  boys,  being  of  the 
ages  of  boys,  to  behave  themselves  like  boys,  then 
the  young  princes  must  be  boys  and  can  not  be  oth¬ 
erwise.” 

“  Did  you  ever  hear  tell  of  mermaids,  sir  ?”  said 
Mr.  Willet. 

“  Certainly  I  have,”  replied  the  clerk. 

“  Very  good,”  said  Mr.  Willet.  “According  to  the 
constitution  of  mermaids,  so  much  of  a  mermaid  as 
is  not  a  woman  must  be  a  fish.  According  to  the 
constitution  of  young  princes,  so  much  of  a  young 
prince  (if  any  thing)  as  is  not  actually  an  angel, 
must  be  godly  and  righteous.  Therefore,  if  it’s  be¬ 
coming  and  godly  and  righteous  in  the  young  princes 
(as  it  is  at  their  ages)  that  they  should  be  boys,  they 
are  and  must  be  boys,  and  can  not  by  possibility  be 
any  thing  else.” 

This  elucidation  of  a  knotty  point  being  received 
with  such  marks  of  approval  as  to  put  John  Willet 
into  a  good  humor,  he  contented  himself  with  re¬ 
peating  to  his  son  his  command  of  silence,  and  ad¬ 
dressing  the  stranger,  said, 

“If  you  had  asked  your  questions  of  a  grown-up 
person : — of  me  or  any  of  these  gentlemen  —  you’d 
have  had  some  satisfaction,  and  wouldn’t  have 
wasted  breath.  Miss  Haredale  is  Mr.  Geoffrey  Hare- 
dale’s  niece.” 

“  Is  her  father  alive  ?”  said  the  man,  carelessly. 

“ No,” rejoined  the  landlord,  “he  is  not  alive,  and 
he  is  not  dead — ” 

“Not  dead !”  cried  the  other. 

“Not  dead  in  a  common  sort  of  way,”  said  the 
landlord. 

The  cronies  nodded  to  each  other,  and  Mr.  Parkes 
remarked  in  an  under-tone,  shaking  his  head  mean¬ 
while  as  who  should  say,  “  let  no  man  contradict  me, 
for  I  won’t  believe  him,”  that  John  Willet  was  in 
amazing  force  to-night,  and  fit  to  tackle  a  chief-jus¬ 
tice. 

The  stranger  suffered  a  short  pause  to  elapse,  and 
then  asked,  abruptly,  “  What  do  you  mean  ?” 

“More  than  you  think  for,  friend,”  returned  John 
Willet.  “  Perhaps  there’s  more  meaning  in  them 
words  than  you  suspect.” 

“Perhaps  there  is,”  said  the  strange  man,  gruffly ; 
“  but  what  the  devil  do  you  speak  in  such  mysteries 
for  ?  You  tell  me,  first,  that  a  man  is  not  alive,  nor 
yet  dead — then,  that  he’s  not  dead  in  a  common  sort 
of  way — then,  that  you  mean  a  great  deal  more  than 
I  think  for.  To  tell  you  the  truth,  you  may  do  that 
easily ;  for  so  far  as  I  can  make  out,  you  mean  noth¬ 
ing.  What  do  you  mean,  I  ask  again  ?” 

“That,”  returned  the  landlord,  a  little  brought 


down  from  his  dignity  by  the  stranger’s  surliness, 
“  is  a  Maypole  story,  and  has  been  any  time  these 
four-and-twenty  years.  That  story  is  Solomon  Dai¬ 
sy’s  story.  It  belongs  to  the  house;  and  nobody 
but  Solomon  Daisy  has  ever  told  it  under  this  roof, 
or  ever  shall — that’s  more.” 

The  man  glanced  at  the  parish-clerk,  whose  air  of 
consciousness  and  importance  plainly  betokened  him 
to  be  the  person  referred  to,  and,  observing  that  he 
had  taken  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  after  a  very  long- 
whiff’  to  keep  it  alight,  and  was  evidently  about  to 
tell  his  story  without  further  solicitation,  gathered 
his  large  coat  about  him,  and  shrinking  farther  back 
was  almost  lost  in  the  gloom  of  the  spacious  chim¬ 
ney-corner,  except  when  the  flame,  struggling  from 
under  a  great  fagot,  whose  weight  almost  crushed 
it  for  the  time,  shot  upward  with  a  strong  and  sud¬ 
den  glare,  and  illumining  his  figure  for  a  moment, 
seemed  afterward  to  cast  it  into  deeper  obscurity 
than  before. 

By  this  flickering  light,  which  made  the  old  room, 
with  its  heavy  timbers  and  paneled  walls,  look  as  if 
it  were  built  of  polished  ebony — the  wind  roaring 
and  howling  without,  now  rattling  the  latch  and 
creaking  the  hinges  of  the  stout  oaken  door,  and 
now  driving  at  the  casement  as  though  it  would 
beat  it  in — by  this  light,  and  under  circumstances 
so  auspicious,  Solomon  Daisy  began  his  tale : 

“  It  was  Mr.  Reuben  Haredale,  Mr.  Geoffrey’s  eld¬ 
er  brother — ” 

Here  he  came  to  a  dead  stop,  and  made  so  long  a 
pause  that  even  John  Willet  grew  impatient  and 
asked  why  he  did  not  proceed. 

“  Cobb,”  said  Solomon  Daisy,  dropping  his  voice 
and  appealing  to  the  post-office  keeper;  “what  day 
of  the  month  is  this  ?” 

“The  nineteenth.” 

“  Of  March,”  said  the  clerk,  bending  forward,  “  the 
nineteenth  of  March;  that’s  very  strange.” 

In  a  low  voice  they  all  acquiesced,  and  Solomon 
went  on : 

“  It  was  Mr.  Reuben  Haredale,  Mr.  Geoffrey’s  eld¬ 
er  brother,  that  twenty-two  years  ago  was  the  own¬ 
er  of  the  Warren,  which,  as  Joe  has  said — not  that 
you  remember  it,  Joe,  for  a  boy  like  you  can’t  do 
that,  but  because  you  have  often  heard  me  say  so — 
was  then  a  much  larger  and  better  place,  and  a  much 
more  valuable  property  than  it  is  now.  His  lady 
was  lately  dead,  and  he  was  left  with  one  child — 
the  Miss  Haredale  you  have  been  inquiring  about — 
who  was  then  scarcely  a  year  old.” 

Although  the  speaker  addressed  himself  to  the 
man  who  had  shown  so  much  curiosity  about  this 
same  family,  and  made  a  pause  here  as  if  expecting 
some  exclamation  of  surprise  or  encouragement,  the 
latter  made  no  remark,  nor  gave  any  indication  that 
he  heard  or  was  interested  in  what  was  said.  Solo¬ 
mon  therefore  turned  to  his  old  companions,  whose 
noses  were  brightly  illuminated  by  the  deep  red 
glow  from  the  bowls  of  their  pipes ;  assured,  by  long- 
experience,  of  their  attention,  and  resolved  to  show 
his  sense  of  such  indecent  behavior. 

“  Mr.  Haredale,”  said  Solomon,  turning  his  back 
upon  the  strange  man,  “left  this  place  when  his 
lady  died,  feeling  it  lonely  like,  and  went  up  to  Lon¬ 
don,  where  he  stopped  some  months;  but  finding 


12 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


that  place  as  lonely  as  this — as  I  suppose  and  have 
always  heard  say — he  suddenly  came  back  again 
Avith  his  little  girl  to  the  Warren,  bringing  with  him 
besides,  that  day,  only  two  women  servants,  and  his 
steward,  and  a  gardener.” 

Mr.  Daisy  stopped  to  take  a  whiff  at  his  pipe, 
wdiich  was  going  out,  and  then  proceeded — at  first 
in  a  snuffling  tone,  occasioned  by  keen  enjoyment  of 
the  tobacco  and  strong  pulling  at  the  pipe,  and  af¬ 
terward  with  increasing  distinctness: 

u — Bringing  with  him  two  women  servants,  and 
his  steward,  and  a  gardener.  The  rest  stopped  be¬ 
hind  up  in  London,  and  were  to  follow  next  day. 
It  happened  that  that  night,  an  old  gentleman  who 
lived  at  Chigwell  Row,  and  had  long  been  poorly, 
deceased,  and  an  order  came  to  me  at  half  after 
twelve  o’clock  at  night  to  go  and  toll  the  passing- 
bell.” 

There  was  a  movement  in  the  little  group  of  list¬ 
eners,  sufficiently  indicative  of  the  strong  repug¬ 
nance  any  one  of  them  would  have  felt  to  have 
turned  out  at  such  a  time  upon  such  an  errand. 
The  clerk  felt  and  understood  it,  and  pursued  his 
theme  accordingly. 

u  It  ivas  a  dreary  thing,  especially  as  the  grave¬ 
digger  w  as  laid  up  in  his  bed,  from  long  wmrking  in 
a  damp  soil  and  sitting  down  to  take  his  dinner  on 
cold  tombstones,  and  I  was  consequently  under  obli¬ 
gation  to  go  alone,  for  it  was  too  late  to  hope  to  get 
any  other  companion.  However,  I  wasn’t  unpre¬ 
pared  for  it ;  as  the  old  gentleman  had  often  made 
it  a  request  that  the  bell  should  be  tolled  as  soon  as 
possible  after  the  breath  was  out  of  his  body,  and  he 
had  been  expected  to  go  for  some  days.  I  put  as 
good  a  face  upon  it  as  I  could,  and  muffling  myself 
up  (for  it  was  mortal  cold),  started  out  with  a  light¬ 
ed  lantern  in  one  hand  and  the  key  of  the  church  in 
the  other.” 

At  this  point  of  the  narrative,  the  dress  of  the 
strange  man  rustled  as  if  he  had  turned  himself  to 
hear  more  distinctly.  Slightly  pointing  over  his 
shoulder,  Solomon  elevated  his  eyebrows  and  nod¬ 
ded  a  silent  inquiry  to  Joe  whether  this  was  the 
case.  Joe  shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  peer¬ 
ed  into  the  corner,  but  could  make  out  nothing,  and 
so  shook  his  head. 

“  It  was  just  such  a  night  as  this  ;  blowing  a  hur¬ 
ricane,  raining  heavily,  and  very  dark — I  often  think 
now,  darker  than  I  ever  saw  it  before  or  since ;  that 
may  be  my  fancy,  but  the  houses  were  all  close  shut 
and  the  folks  indoors,  and  perhaps  there  is  only  one 
other  man  who  knows  how  dark  it  really  was.  I 
got  into  the  church,  chained  the  door  back  so  that 
it  should  keep  ajar — for,  to  tell  the  truth,  I  didn’t 
like  to  be  shut  in  there  alone — and  putting  my  lan¬ 
tern  on  the  stone  seat  in  the  little  corner  where  the 
bell-rope  is,  sat  down  beside  it  to  trim  the  candle. 

u  I  sat  down  to  trim  the  candle,  and  when  I  had 
done  so  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to  get  up  again, 
and  go  about  my  work.  I  don’t  know  how  it  was, 
but  I  thought  of  all  the  ghost  stories  I  had  ever 
heard,  even  those  that  I  had  heard  when  I  was  a 
boy  at  school,  and  had  forgotten  long  ago ;  and  they 
didn’t  come  into  my  mind  one  after  another,  but  all 
crowding  at  once,  like.  I  recollected  one  story  there 
was  in  the  village,  how  that  on  a  certain  night  in 


the  year  (it  might  be  that  very  night  for  any  thing 
I  knew),  all  the  dead  people  came  out  of  the  ground 
and  sat  at  the  heads  of  their  own  graves  till  morn¬ 
ing.  This  made  me  think  how  many  people  I  had 
known  were  buried  between  the  church  door  and 
the  churcli-yard  gate,  and  what  a  dreadful  thing  it 
would  be  to  have  to  pass  among  them  and  know 
them  again,  so  earthy  and  unlike  themselves.  I  had 
known  all  the  niches  and  arches  in  the  church  from 
a  child ;  still,  I  couldn’t  persuade  myself  that  those 
were  their  natural  shadows  which  I  saw  on  the  pave¬ 
ment,  but  felt  sure  there  were  some  ugly  figures  hid¬ 
ing  among  ’em  and  peeping  out.  Thinking  on  in 
this  way,  I  began  to  think  of  the  old  gentleman  who 
was  just  dead,  and  I  could  have  sworn,  as  I  looked 
up  the  dark  char.cel,  that  I  saw  him  in  his  usual 
place,  wrapping  his  shroud  about  him  and  shivering 
as  if  he  felt  it  cold.  All  this  time  I  sat  listening  and 
listening,  and  hardly  dared  to  breathe.  At  length  I 
started  up  and  took  the  bell-rope  in  my  hands.  At 
that  minute  there  rang — not  that  bell,  for  I  had 
hardly  touched  the  rope — but  another! 

“  I  heard  the  ringing  of  another  bell,  and  a  deep 
bell  too,  plainly.  It  was  only  for  an  instant,  and 
even  then  the  wind  carried  the  sound  away,  but  I 
heard  it.  I  listened  for  a  long  time,  but  it  rang  no 
more.  I  had  heard  of  corpse  candles,  and  at  last  I 
persuaded  myself  that  this  must  be  a  corpse  bell  toll¬ 
ing  of  itself  at  midnight  for  the  dead.  I  tolled  my 
bell— how,  or  how  long,  I  don’t  know — and  ran  home 
to  bed  as  fast  as  I  could  touch  the  ground. 

“I  was  up  early  next  morning  after  a  restless 
night,  and  told  the  story  to  my  neighbors.  Some 
were  serious  and  some  made  light  of  it ;  I  don’t  think 
any  body  believed  it  real.  But,  that  morning,  Mr. 
Reuben  Haredale  was  found  murdered  in  his  bed¬ 
chamber  ;  and  in  his  hand  was  a  piece  of  the  cord 
attached  to  an  alarm-bell  outside  the  roof,  which 
hung  in  his  room  and  had  been  cut  asunder,  no 
doubt  by  the  murderer,  when  he  seized  it. 

“  That  was  the  bell  I  heard. 

“A  bureau  was  found  opened,  and  a  cash-box, 
which  Mr.  Haredale  had  brought  down  that  day, 
and  was  supposed  to  contain  a  large  sum  of  money, 
was  gone.  The  steward  and  gardener  were  both 
missing,  and  both  suspected  for  a  long  time,  but 
they  were  never  found,  though  hunted  far  and  wide. 
And  far  enough  they  might  have  looked  for  poor  Mr. 
Rudge  the  steward,  whose  body — scarcely  to  be  rec¬ 
ognized  by  his  clothes  and  the  wratch  and  ring  he 
wore — was  found,  months  afterward,  at  the  bottom 
of  a  piece  of  wrater  in  the  grounds,  with  a  deep  gash 
in  the  breast  where  he  had  been  stabbed  with  a 
knife.  He  was  only  partly  dressed ;  and  people  all 
agreed  that  he  had  been  sitting  up  reading  in  his 
own  room,  where  there  were  many  traces  of  blood, 
and  was  suddenly  fallen  upon  and  killed  before  his 
master. 

“  Every  body  now  knew  that  the  gardener  must 
be  the  murderer,  and  though  he  has  never  been  heard 
of  from  that  day  to  this,  he  will  be,  mark  my  words. 
The  crime  was  committed  this  day  two-and-twenty 
years— on  the  nineteenth  of  March,  one  thousand 
seven  hundred  and  fifty-three.  On  the  nineteenth 
of  March  in  some  year— no  matter  when — I  know  it, 
I  am  sure  of  it,  for  we  have  always,  in  some  strange 


BOUGH  RIDING. 


13 


way  or  other,  been  brought  back  to  the  subject  on 
that  day  ever  since — on  the  nineteenth  of  March  in 
some  year,  sooner  or  later,  that  man  will  he  discov¬ 
ered.” 

- ♦ - 


CHAPTER  II. 


“  A  STRANGE  story !”  said  the  man  who  had  been 
Jl. II.  the  cause  of  the  narration. —  “Stranger  still 
if  it  comes  about  as  you  predict.  Is  that  all  ?” 

A  question  so  unexpected,  nettled  Solomon  Daisy 
not  a  little.  By  dint  of  relating  the  story  very  oft¬ 
en,  and  ornamenting  it  (according  to  the  village  re¬ 
port)  with  a  few  flourishes  suggested  by  the  various 
hearers  from  time  to  time,  he  had  come  by  degrees 
to  tell  it  with  great  effect ;  and  “  is  that  all  ?”  after 
the  climax,  was  not  what  he  was  accustomed  to. 

“  Is  that  all  ?”  he  repeated ;  “  yes,  that’s  all,  sir. 
And  enough  too,  I  think.” 

“  I  think  so  too.  My  horse,  young  man !  He  is 
but  a  hack  hired  from  a  road-side  posting-house,  but 
he  must  carry  me  to  London  to-night.” 

“  To-night !”  said  Joe. 

“  To-night,”  returned  the  other.  “What  do  you 
stare  at  ?  This  tavern  would  seem  to  be  a  house 
of  call  for  all  the  gaping  idlers  of  the  neighbor¬ 
hood  !” 


At  this  remark,  which  evidently  had  reference  to 
the  scrutiny  he  had  undergone,  as  mentioned  in  the 
foregoing  chapter,  the  eyes  of*  John  Willet  and  his 
friends  were  diverted  with  marvelous  rapidity  to  the 
copper  boiler  again.  Not  so  with  Joe,  who,  being  a 
mettlesome  fellow,  returned  the  stranger’s  angry 
glance  with  a  steady  look,  and  rejoined  : 

“  It  is  not  a  very  bold  thing  to  wonder  at  your 
going  on  to-night.  Surely  you  have  been  asked 
such  a  harmless  question  in  an  inn  before,  and  in 
better  weather  than  this.  I  thought  you  mightn’t 
know  the  way,  as  you  seem  strange  to  this  part.” 

“  The  way — ”  repeated  the  other,  irritably. 

“Yes.  Do  you  know  it  f  ’  * 

“I’ll — humph! — I’ll  find  it,”  replied  the  man,  wa¬ 
ving  his  hand  and  turning  on  his  heel.  “Landlord, 
take  the  reckoning  here.” 


John  Willet  did  as  he  was  desired;  for  on  that 
point  he  Avas  seldom  slow,  except  in  the  particulars 
of  giving  change,  and  testing  the  goodness  of  any 
piece  of  coin  that  was  proffered  to  him,  by  the  ap¬ 
plication  of  his  teeth  or  his  tongue,  or  some  other 
test,  or  in  doubtful  cases,  by  a  long  series  of  tests 
terminating  in  its  rejection.  The  guest  then  wrap¬ 
ped  his  garments  about  him  so  as  to  shelter  himself 
as  effectually  as  he  could  from  the  rough  weather, 
and  without  any  word  or  sign  of  farewell  betook 
himself  to  the  stable-yard.  Here  Joe  (who  had  left 
the  room  on  the  conclusion  of  their  short  dialogue) 
was  protecting  himself  and  the  horse  from  the  rain 
Jhe  shelter  of  an  old  pent-house  roof. 

much  of  my  opinion,”  said  Joe,  pat- 
the  neck.  “  I’ll  wager  that 
might  would  please  him  bet- 


opinions,  as  we  have 
way  here,”  was  the 


“  So  I  was  thinking  before  you  came  out,  for  he 
has  felt  your  spurs,  poor  beast.” 

The  stranger  adjusted  his  coat-collar  about  his 
face,  and  made  no  answer. 

“  You’ll  know  me  again,  I  see,”  he  said,  marking 
the  young  fellow’s  earnest  gaze,  when  he  had  sprung 
into  the  saddle. 

“  The  man’s  worth  knowing,  master,  who  travels 
a  road  he  don’t  know,  mounted  on  a  jaded  horse, 
and  leaves  good  quarters  to  do  it  on  such  a  night  as 
this.” 

“  You  have  sharp  eyes  and  a  sharp  tongue  I  find.” 

“  Both  I  hope  by  nature,  but  the  last  grows  rusty 
sometimes  for  want  of  using.” 

“  Use  the  first  less  too,  and  keep  their  sharpness 
for  your  sweethearts,  boy,”  said  the  man. 

So  saying,  he  shook  his  hand  from  the  bridle, 
struck  him  roughly  on  the  head  with  the  butt-end 
of  his  whip,  and  galloped  away ;  dashing  through 
the  mud  and  darkness  with  a  headlong  speed,  which 
few  badly-mounted  horsemen  would  have  cared  to 
venture,  even  had  they  been  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  country ;  and  which,  to  one  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  way  he  rode,  was  attended  at  every 
step  with  great  hazard  and  danger. 

The  roads,  even  within  twelve  miles  of  London, 
were  at  that  time  ill  paved,  seldom  repaired,  and 
very  badly  made.  The  way  this  rider  traversed 
had  been  plowed  up  by  the  wheels  of  heavy  wag¬ 
ons,  and  rendered  rotten  by  the  frosts  and  thaws 
of  the  preceding  winter,  or  possibly  of  many  win¬ 
ters.  Great  holes  and  gaps  had  been  worn  into 
the  soil,  which,  being  now  filled  with  water  from 
the  late  rains,  were  not  easily  distinguishable  even 
by  day ;  and  a  plunge  into  any  one  of  them  might 
have  brought  down  a  surer-footed  horse  than  the 
poor  beast  now  urged  forward  to  the  utmost  extent 
of  his  powers.  Sharp  flints  and  stones  rolled  from 
under  his  hoofs  continually ;  the  rider  could  scarce¬ 
ly  see  beyond  the  animal’s  head,  or  farther  on  either 
side  than  his  own  arm  would  have  extended.  At 
that  time,  too,  all  the  roads  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  metropolis  were  infested  by  foot-pads  or  high¬ 
waymen,  and  it  was  a  night,  of  all  others,  in  which 
any  evil-disposed  person  of  this  class  might  have 
pursued  his  unlawful  calling  with  little  fear  of  de¬ 
tection. 

Still,  the  traveler  dashed  forward  at  the  same 
reckless  pace,  regardless  alike  of  the  dirt  and  wet 
which  flew  about  his  head,  the  profound  darkuess 
of  the  night,  and  the  probability  of  encountering 
some  desperate  characters  abroad.  At  every  turn 
and  angle,  even  where  a  deviation  from  the  direct 
course  might  have  been  least  expected,  and  could 
not  possibly  be  seen  until  he  was  close  upon  it,  he 
guided  the  bridle  with  an  unerring  hand,  and  kept 
the  middle  of  the  road.  Thus  he  sped  onward,  rais¬ 
ing  himself  in  the  stirrups,  leaning  his  body  forward 
until  it  almost  touched  the  horse’s  neck,  and  flour¬ 
ishing  his  heavy  whip  above  his  head  with  the  fer¬ 
vor  of  a  madman. 

There  are  times  when,  the  elements  being  in  un¬ 
usual  commotion,  those  who  are  bent  on  daring  en¬ 
terprises,  or  agitated  by  great  thoughts,  whether  of 
good  or  evil,  feel  a  mysterious  sympathy  with  the 
tumult  of  nature,  and  are  roused  into  corresponding 

V  * 


14 


BAB  NAB  Y  BUDGE. 


violence.  In  the  midst  of  thunder,  lightning,  and 
storm,  many  tremendous  deeds  have  been  committed ; 
men,  self-possessed  before,  have  given  a  sudden  loose 
to  passions  they  could  no  longer  control.  The  de¬ 
mons  of  wrath  and  despair  have  striven  to  emulate 
those  who  ride  the  whirlwind  and  direct  the  storm ; 
and  man,  lashed  into  madness  with  the  roaring  winds 
and  boiling  waters,  has  become  for  the  time  as  wild 
and  merciless  as  the  elements  themselves. 

Whether  the  traveler  was  possessed  by  thoughts 
which  the  fury  of  the  night  had  heated  and  stimu¬ 
lated  into  a  quicker  current,  or  was  merely  impelled 
by  some  strong  motive  to  reach  his  journey’s  end, 
on  he  swept  more  like  a  hunted  phantom  than  a 
man,  nor  checked  his  pace  until,  arriving  at  some 
cross-roads,  one  of  which  led  by  a  longer  route  to 
the  place  whence  he  had  lately  started,  he  bore 
down  so  suddenly  upon  a  vehicle  which  was  coming 
toward  him,  that  in  the  effort  to  avoid  it  he  well 
nigh  pulled  his  horse  upon  his  haunches,  and  nar 
rowly  escaped  being  thrown. 

«  Yoho !”  cried  the  voice  of  a  man.  “  What’s  that  ? 
who  goes  there  ?” 

“A  friend!”  replied  the  traveler. 

“  A  friend !”  repeated  the  voice.  “  Who  calls  him¬ 
self  a  friend  and  rides  like  that,  abusing  Heaven’s 
gifts  in  the  shape  of  horse-flesh,  and  endangering, 
not  only  his  own  neck  (which  might  be  no  great 
matter)  but  the  necks  of  other  people  ?’’ 

“  You  have  a  lantern  there,  I  see,”  said  the  travel¬ 
er,  dismounting  ;  “  lend  it  me  for  a  moment.  You 
have  wounded  my  horse,  I  think,  with  your  shaft  or 
wIicgI  • 

“  Wounded  him ?”  cried  the  other ;  “if  I  haven’t 
killed  him,  it’s  no  fault  of  yours.  What  do  you 
mean  by  galloping  along  the  king’s  highway  like 
that,  eh  ?” 

“  Give  me  the  light,”  returned  the  traveler,  snatch¬ 
ing  it  from  his  hand,  “and  don’t  ask  idle  questions 
of  a  man  who  is  in  no  mood  for  talking.” 

“  If  you  had  said  you  were  in  no  mood  for  talking 
before,  I  should  perhaps  have  been  in  no  mood  for 
lighting,”  said  the  voice.  “Hows’ever  as  it’s  the 
poor  horse  that’s  damaged  and  not  you,  one  of  you 
is  welcome  to  the  light  at  all  events — but  it’s  not 
the  crusty  one.” 

The  traveler  returned  no  answer  to  this  speech, 
but  holding  the  light  near  to  his  panting  and  reek¬ 
ing  beast,  examined  him  in  limb  and  carcass.  Mean¬ 
while,  the  other  man  sat  very  composedly  in  his  ve¬ 
hicle,  which  was  a  kind  of  chaise  with  a  depository 
for  a  large  bag  of  tools,  and  watched  his  proceed¬ 
ings  with  a  careful  eye. 

The  looker-on  was  a  round,  red-faced,  sturdy  yeo¬ 
man,  with  a  double  chin,  and  a  voice  husky  with 
good  living,  good  sleeping,  good  humor,  and  good 
health.  He  was  past  the  prime  of  life,  but  Father 
Time  is  not  always  a  hard  parent,  and,  though  he 
tarries  for  none  of  his  children,  often  lays  his  hand 
lightly  upon  those  who  have  used  him  well ;  mak¬ 
ing  them  old  men  and  women  inexorably  enough, 
but  leaving  their  hearts  and  spirits  young  and  in 
full  vigor.  With  such  people  the  gray  head  is  but 
the  impression  of  the  old  fellow’s  hand  in  giving 
them  his  blessing,  and  every  wrinkle  but  a  notch  in 
the  quiet  calendar  of  a  well-spent  life. 

.  "X  •  \  l  * 


The  person  whom  the  traveler  had  so  abruptly 
encountered  was  of  this  kind:  bluff,  hale,  hearty, 
and  in  a  green  old  age :  at  peace  with  himself,  and 
evidently  disposed  to  be  so  with  all  the  world.  Al¬ 
though  muffled  up  in  divers  coats  and  handkerchiefs 
one  of  which  passed  over  his  crown,  and  tied  in 
a  convenient  crease  of  his  double  chin,  secured  his 
three-cornered  hat  and  bob-wig  from  blowing  off  his 
head — there  was  no  disguising  his  plump  and  com¬ 
fortable  figure;  neither  did  certain  dirty  finger¬ 
marks  upon  his  face  give  it  any  other  than  an  odd 
and  comical  expression,  through  which  its  natural 
good  humor  shone  with  undiminished  lustre. 

“  He  is  not  hurt,”  said  the  traveler  at  length,  rais¬ 
ing  his  head  and  the  lantern  together. 

“You  have  found  that  out  at  last,  have  you?” 
rejoined  the  old  man.  “My  eyes  have  seen  more 
light  than  yours,  but  I  wouldn’t  change  with  you.” 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?” 

«  Mean !  I  could  have  told  you  he  wasn’t  hurt, 
five  minutes  ago.  Give  me  the  light,  friend ;  ride 
forward  at  a  gentler  pace ;  and  good-night.” 

In  handing  up  the  lantern,  the  man  necessarily 
cast  its  rays  full  on  the  speaker’s  face.  Their  eyes 
met  at  the  instant.  He  suddenly  dropped  it  and 
crushed  it  with  his  foot. 

“  Did  you  never  see  a  lock-smith  before,  that  you 
start  as  if  you  had  come  upon  a  ghost  ?”  cried  the 
old  man  in  the  chaise,  “  or  is  this,”  he  added  hastily, 
thrusting  his  hand  into  the  tool-basket  and  drawing 
out  a  hammer,  “  a  scheme  for  robbing  me  ?  I  know 
these  roads,  friend.  When  I  travel  them,  I  carry 
nothing  but  a  few  shillings,  and  not  a  crown’s  worth 
of  them.  I  tell  you  plainly,  to  save  us  both  trouble, 
that  there’s  nothing  to  be  got  from  me  but  a  pretty 
stout  arm  considering  my  years,  and  this  tool,  which, 
mayhap  from  long  acquaintance  with,  I  can  use  pret¬ 
ty  briskly.  You  shall  not  have  it  all  your  own  way, 

I  promise  you,  if  you  play  at  that  game.  ’  With 
these  words  he  stood  upon  the  defensive. 

“  I  am  not  what  you  take  me  for,  Gabriel  Aar  den, 
replied  the  other. 

“  Then  what  and  who  are  you  ?”  returned  the  lock¬ 
smith.  “You  know  my  name,  it  seems.  Let  me 
know  yours.” 

“  I  have  not  gained  the  information  from  any  con¬ 
fidence  of  yours,  but  from  the  inscription  on  your 
cart  which  tells  it  to  all  the  town,”  replied  the 
trSiYolcr* 

“  You  have  better  eyes  for  that  than  you  had  for 
your  horse,  then,”  said  Varden,  descending  nimbly 
from  his  chaise;  “who  are  you?  Let  me  see  your 
faCe.” 

While  the  lock-smith  alighted,  the  traveler  had 
regained  his  saddle,  from  which  he  now  confront¬ 
ed  the  old  man,  who,  moving  as  the  horse  moved  in 
chafing  under  the  tightened  rein,  kept  close  beside 
him. 

“  Let  me  see  your  face,  I  say.” 

“  Stand  off!” 

“No  masquerading  tricks,”  s: 

“  and  tales  at  the  club  to-i 
den  was  frightened  by 


night.  Stand — let  me 
Finding  that  furthe 
volve  him  in  a  persom 


GABRIEL  VARDEN. 


15 


by  no  means  to  be  despised,  tlie  traveler  threw  back 
his  coat,  and  stooping  down  looked  steadily  at  the 
lock-smith. 

Perhaps  two  men  more  powerfully  contrasted 
never  opposed  each  other  face  to  face.  The  ruddy 
features  of  the  lock-smith  so  set  olf  and  heightened 
the  excessive  paleness  of  the  man  on  horseback,  that 
he  looked  like  a  bloodless  ghost,  while  the  moisture, 
which  hard  riding  had  brought  out  upon  his  skin, 
hung  there  in  dark  and  heavy  drops,  like  dews  of 
agony  and  death.  The  countenance  of  the  old  lock¬ 
smith  lighted  up  with  the  smile  of  one  expecting 
to  detect  in  this  unpromising  stranger  some  latent 
roguery  of  eye  or  lip,  which  should  reveal  a  familiar 
person  in  that  arch  disguise,  and  spoil  his  jest.  The 
face  of  the  other,  sullen  and  fierce,  but  shrinking  too, 
was  that  of  a  man  who  stood  at  bay ;  while  his  firm¬ 
ly-closed  jaws,  his  puckered  mouth,  and,  more  than 
all,  a  certain  stealthy  motion  of  the  hand  within  his 
breast,  seemed  to  announce  a  desperate  purpose  very 
foreign  to  acting,  or  child’s  play. 

Thus  they  regarded  each  other  for  some  time  in 
silence. 

“  Humph !”  he  said,  when  he  had  scanned  his  fea¬ 
tures  ;  “  I  don’t  know  you.” 

“Don’t  desire  to?” — returned  the  other,  muffling 
himself  as  before. 

“  I  don’t,”  said  Gabriel ;  “  to  be  plain  with  you, 
friend,  you  don’t  carry  in  your  countenance  a  letter 
of  recommendation.” 

“  It’s  not  my  wish,”  said  the  traveler.  “  My  hu¬ 
mor  is  to  be  avoided.” 

“Well,”  said  the  lock-smith,  bluntly,  “I  think 
you’ll  have  your  humor.” 

“  I  will,  at  any  cost,”  rejoined  the  traveler.  “  In 
proof  of  it,  lay  this  to  heart — that  you  were  never 
in  such  peril  of  your  life  as  you  have  been  within 
these  few  moments ;  when  you  are  within  five  min¬ 
utes  of  breathing  your  last,  you  will  not  be  nearer 
death  than  you  have  been  to-night !” 

“Ay!”  said  the  sturdy  lock-smith. 

“Ay!  and  a  violent  death.” 

“  From  whose  hand  ?” 

“  From  mine,”  replied  the  traveler. 

With  that  he  put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  rode 
away ;  at  first  plashing  heavily  through  the  mire  at 
a  smart  trot,  but  gradually  increasing  in  speed  until 
the  last  sound  of  his  horse’s  hoofs  died  away  upon 
the  wind;  when  he  was  again  hurrying  on  at  the 
same  furious  gallop,  which  had  been  his  pace  when 
the  lock-smith  first  encountered  him. 

Gabriel  Varden  remained  standing  in  the  road 
with  the  broken  lantern  in  his  hand,  listening  in 
stupefied  silence  until  no  sound  reached  his  ear  but 
the  moaning  of  the  wind  and  the  fast-falling  rain ; 
when  he  struck  himself  one  or  two  smart  blows  in 
the  breast  by  way  of  rousing  himself,  and  broke  into 
an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

“What  in  the  name  of  wonder  can  this  fellow  be ! 
a  madman?  a  highwayman?  a  cut-throat?  If  he 
had  not  scoured  off  so  fast,  we’d  have  seen  who  was 
in  most  danger,  he  or  I.  I  never  nearer  death  than 
I  have  been  to-night !  I  hope  I  may  be  no  nearer 
to  it  for  a  score  of  years  to  come — if  so,  I’ll  be  con¬ 


- 3? - - - 

tent  to  be  no  farther  from  it.  My  stars ! — a  pretty 
brag  this  to  a  stout  man — pooh,  pooh !” 

Gabriel  resumed  his  seat,  and  looked  wistfully  up 
the  road  by  which  the  traveler  had  come ;  murmur¬ 
ing  in  a  half-whisper : 

“The  Maypole  —  two  miles  to  the  Maypole.  I 
came  the  other  road  from  the  Warren  after  a  long- 
day’s  work  at  locks  and  bells,  on  purpose  that  I 
should  not  come  by  the  Maypole  and  break  my 
promise  to  Martha  by  looking  in — there’s  resolu¬ 
tion!  It  would  be  dangerous  to  go  on  to  London 
without  a  light ;  and  it’s  four  miles,  and  a  good  half- 
mile  besides,  to  the  Half-way  House ;  and  between 
this  and  that  is  the  very  place  where  one  needs  a 
light  most.  Two  miles  to  the  Maypole !  I  told 
Martha  I  wouldn’t ;  I  said  I  wouldn’t,  and  I  didn’t — 
there’s  resolution !” 

Repeating  these  two  last  words  very  often,  as  if 
to  compensate  for  the  little  resolution  he  was  going 
to  show  by  piquing  himself  on  the  great  resolution 
he  had  shown,  Gabriel  Yarden  quietly  turrfed  back, 
determining  to  get  a  light  at  the  Maypole,  and  to 
take  nothing  but  a  light. 

When  he  got  to  the  Maypole,  however,  and  Joe, 
responding  to  his  well-known  hail,  came  running  out 
to  the  horse’s  head,  leaving  the  door  open  behind 
him,  and  disclosing  a  delicious  perspective  of  warmth 
and  brightness — when  the  ruddy  gleam  of  the  fire, 
streaming  through  the  old  red  curtains  of  the  com¬ 
mon  room,  seemed  to  bring  with  it,  as  part  of  itself, 
a  pleasant  hum  of  voices,  and  a  fragrant  odor  of 
steaming  grog  and  rare  tobacco,  all  steeped  as  it 
were  in  the  cheerful  glow — when  the  shadows,  flit¬ 
ting  across  the  curtain,  showed  that  those  inside  had 
risen  from  their  snug  seats,  and  were  making  room 
in  the  snuggest  corner  (how  well  he  knew  that  cor¬ 
ner!)  for  the  honest  lock-smith,  and  a  broad  glare, 
suddenly  streaming  up,  bespoke  the  goodness  of  the 
crackling  log  from  which  a  brilliant  train  of  sparks 
was  doubtless  at  that  moment  whirling  ivp  the  chim¬ 
ney  in  honor  of  his  coming — when,  superadded  to 
these  enticements,  there  stole  upon  him  from  the  dis¬ 
tant  kitchen  a  gentle  sound  of  frying,  with  a  musical 
clatter  of  plates  and  dishes,  and  a  savory  smell  that 
made  even  the  boisterous  wind  a  perfume — Gabriel 
felt  his  firmness  oozing  rapidly  away.  He  tried  to 
look  stoically  at  the  tavern,  but  his  features  would 
relax  into  a  look  of  fondness.  He  turned  his  head 
the  other  way,  and  the  cold  black  country  seemed  to 
frown  him  off,  and  drive  him  for  a  refuge  into  its 
hospitable  arms. 

“  The  merciful  man,  Joe,”  said  the  lock-smith,  “  is 
merciful  to  his  beast.  I’ll  get  out  for  a  little  while.” 

And  how  natural  it  was  to  get  out.  And  how 
unnatural  it  seemed  for  a  sober  man  to  be  plodding 
wearily  along  through  miry  roads,  encountering  the 
rude  buffets  of  the  wind  and  pelting  of  the  rain, 
when  there  was  a  clean  floor  covered  with  crisp 
white  sand,  a  well-swept  hearth,  a  blazing  fire,  a  ta¬ 
ble  decorated  with  white  cloth,  bright  pewter  flag¬ 
ons,  and  other  tempting  preparations  for  a  well- 
cooked  meal — when  there  were  these  things,  and 
company  disposed  to  make  the  most  of  them,  all 
ready  to  his  hand,  and  entreating  him  to  enjoyment ! 


16 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


- f - 

CHAPTER  III. 

SUCH  were  the  lock-smith’s  thoughts  when  first 
seated  in  the  snug  corner,  and  slowly  recovering 
from  a  pleasant  defect  of  vision — pleasant,  because 
occasioned  by  the  wind  blowing  in  his  eyes — which 
made  it  a  matter  of  sound  policy  and  duty  to  him¬ 
self,  that  he  should  take  refuge  from  the  weather, 
and  tempted  him,  for  the-  same  reasou,  to  aggravate 
a  slight  cough,  and  declare  he  felt  but  poorly.  Such 
were  still  his  thoughts  more  than  a  full  hour  after¬ 
ward,  when,  supper  over,  be  still  sat  with  shining 
jovial  face  in  the  same  warm  nook,  listening  to  the 
cricket -like  chirrup  of  little  Solomon  Daisy,  and 
bearing  no  unimportant  or  slightly  respected  part 
in  the  social  gossip  round  the  Maypole  fire. 

“ 1  wish  he  may  be  an  honest  man,  that’s  all,”  said 
Solomon,  winding  up  a  variety  of  speculations  rela¬ 
tive  to  the  stranger,  concerning  whom  Gabriel  had 
compared  notes  with  the  company,  and  so  raised  a 
grave  discussion ;  “  I  wish  he  may  be  an  honest 
man.” 

“So  we  all  do,  I  suppose,  don’t  we ?”  observed  the 
lock-smith. 

“I  don’t,”  said  Joe. 

“  No !”  cried  Gabriel. 

“  No.  He  struck  me  with  his  whip,  the  coward, 
when  he  was  mounted  and  I  afoot,  and  I  should  be 
better  pleased  that  he  turned  out  what  I  think  him.” 
“And  what  may  that  be,  Joe  ?” 

“  No  good,  Mr.  Yarden.  You  may  shake  your  head, 
father,  but  I  say  no  good,  and  will  say  no  good,  aud 
I  would  say  no  good  a  hundred  times  over,  if  that 
would  bring  him  back  to  have  the  drubbing  he  de¬ 
serves.” 

“  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,”  said  John  Willet. 

“I  won’t,  father.  It’s  all  along  of  you  that  he 
ventured  to  do  what  he  did.  Seeing  me  treated  like 
a  child,  and  put  down  like  a  fool,  he  plucks  up  a 
heart  aud  has  a  fling  at  a  fellow  that  he  thinks — 
and  may  well  think  too — hasn’t  a  grain  of  spirit. 
But  he’s  mistaken,  as  I’ll  show  him,  and  as  I’ll  show 
all  of  you  before  long.” 

“Does  the  boy  know  what  he’s  a-saying  of!”  cried 
the  astonished  John  Willet. 

“Father,”  returned  Joe,  “I  know  what  I  say  and 
mean,  Avell — better  than  you  do  when  you  hear  me. 
I  can  bear  with  you,  but  I  can  not  bear  the  contempt 
that  your  treating  me  in  the  way  you  do,  brings 
upon  me  from  others  every  day.  Look  at  other 
young  men  of  my  age.  Have  they  no  liberty,  no 
will,  no  right  to  speak  ?  Are  they  obliged  to  sit 
mum-chance,  and  to  be  ordered  about  till  they  are 
the  laughing-stock  of  young  and  old.  I  am  a  by¬ 
word  all  over  Chigwell,  and  I  say — and  it’s  fairer 
my  saying  so  now,  than  waiting  till  you  are  dead, 
and  I  have  got  your  money — I  say,  that  before  long 
I  shall  be  driven  to  break  such  bounds,  and  that 
when  I  do,  it  won’t  be  me  that  you’ll  have  to  blame, 
but  your  own  self,  and  no  other.” 

John  Willet  was  so  amazed  by  the  exasperation 
and  boldness  of  his  hopeful  son,  that  he  sat  as  one 
bewildered,  staring  in  a  ludicrous  manner  at  the 
boiler,  and  endeavoring,  but  quite  ineffectually,  to 
collect  his  tardy  thoughts,  and  invent  an  answer. 
The  guests,  scarcely  less  disturbed,  were  equally  at 


a  loss ;  and  at  length,  with  a  variety  of  muttered, 
half-expressed  condolences,  and  pieces  of  advice,  rose 
to  depart ;  being  at  the  same  time  slightly  muddled 
with  liquor. 

The  honest  lock-smith  alone  addressed  a  few  words 
of  coherent  and  sensible  advice  to  both  parties,  ur¬ 
ging  John  Willet  to  remember  that  Joe  was  nearly 
arrived  at  man’s  estate,  and  should  not  be  ruled  with 
too  tight  a  hand,  and  exhorting  Joe  himself  to  bear 
with  his  father’s  caprices,  and  rather  endeavor  to 
turn  them  aside  by  temperate  remonstrance  than  by 
ill-timed  rebellion.  This  advice  was  received  as 
such  advice  usually  is.  On  John  Willet  it  made  al¬ 
most  as  much  impression  as  on  the  sign  outside  the 
door,  while  Joe,  who  took  it  in  the  best  part,  avowed 
himself  more  obliged  than  he  could  well  express,  but 
politely  intimated  his  intention  nevertheless  of  tak¬ 
ing  his  own  course  uninfluenced  by  any  body. 

“You  have  always  been  a  very  good  friend  to  me, 
Mr.  Yarden,”  he  said,  as  they  stood  without,  in  the 
porch,  and  the  lock-smith  was  equipping  himself  for 
his  journey  home ;  “  I  take  it  very  kind  of  yon  to 
say  all  this,  but  the  time’s  nearly  come  when  the 
Maypole  and  I  must  part  company.” 

“  Roving  stones  gather  no  moss,  Joe,”  said  Gabriel. 

“  Nor  mile-stones  much,”  replied  Joe.  “  I’m  little 
better  than  one  here,  and  see  as  much  of  the  world.” 

“  Then,  what  would  you  do,  Joe,”  pursued  the  lock¬ 
smith,  stroking  his  chin  reflectively.  “What  could 
you  be  ?  where  could  you  go,  you  see  ?” 

“I  must  trust  to  chance,  Mr.  Varden.” 

“A  bad  thing  to  trust  to,  Joe.  I  don’t  like  it.  I 
always  tell  my  girl  when  we  talk  about  a  husband 
for  her,  never  to  trust  to  chance,  but  to  make  sure 
beforehand  that  she  has  a  good  man  and  true,  aud 
then  chance  will  neither  make  hen  nor  break  her. 
What  are  you  fidgeting  about  there,  Joe  ?  Nothing 
gone  in  the  harness,  I  hope  ?” 

“No,  no,”  said  Joe — finding,  however,  something 
very  engrossing  to  do  in  the  ^ay  of  strapping  and 
buckling — “  Miss  Dolly  quite  well  ?” 

“  Hearty,  thankye.  She  looks  pretty  enough  to 
be  well,  and  good  too.” 

“  She’s  always  both,  sir — ” 

“  So  she  is,  thank  God  !” 

“I  hope,”  said  Joe,  after  some  hesitation,  “that 
you  won’t  tell  this  story  against  me — this  of  my 
having  been  beat  like  the  boy  they’d  make  of  me — 
at  all  events,  till  I  have  met  this  man  again  and  set¬ 
tled  the  account.  It’ll  be  a  better  story  then.” 

“  Why  who  should  I  tell  it  to  ?”  returned  Gabriel. 
“They  know  it  here,  and  I’m  not  likely  to  come 
across  any  body  else  who  would  care  about  it.” 

“  That’s  true  enough,”  said  the  young  fellow,  with 
a  sigh.  “  I  quite  forgot  that.  Yes,  that’s  true !” 

So  saying,  he  raised  his  face,  which  was  very  red 
— no  doubt  from  the  exertion  of  strapping  and  buck¬ 
ling  as  aforesaid — and  giving  the  reins  to  the  old 
man,  who  had  by  this  time  taken  his  seat,  sighed 
again  and  bade  him  good-night. 

“Good-night!”  cried  Gabriel.  “Now  think  bet¬ 
ter  of  what  we  have  just  been  speaking  of,  and  don’t 
be  rash,  there’s  a  good  fellow !  I  have  an  interest 
in  you,  and  wouldn’t  have  you  cast  yourself  away. 
Good-night !” 

Returning  his  cheery  farewell  with  cordial  good- 


A  MAN  LYING  ON  THE  ROAD. 


17 


will,  Joe  Willet  lingered  until  the  sound  of  wheels 
ceased  to  vibrate  in  his  ears,  and  then,  shaking  his 
head  mournfully,  re-entered  the  house. 

Gabriel  Varden  went  his  way  toward  London, 
thinking  of  a  great  many  things,  and  most  of  all  of 
flaming  terms  in  which  to  relate  his  adventure,  and 
so  account  satisfactorily  to  Mrs.  Varden  for  visiting 
the  Maypole,  despite  certain  solemn  covenants  be¬ 
tween  himself  and  that  lady.  Thinking  begets,  not 
only  thought,  but  drowsiness  occasionally,  and  the 
more  the  lock-smith  thought,  the  more  sleepy  he  be¬ 
came. 

A  man  may  he  very  sober — or  at  least  firmly  set 
upon  his  legs  on  that  neutral  ground  which  lies  be¬ 
tween  the  confines  of  perfect  sobriety  and  slight  tip¬ 
siness — and  yet  feel  a  strong  tendency  to  mingle  up 
present  circumstances  with  others  which  have  no 
manner  of  connection  with  them;  to  confound  all 
consideration  of  persons,  things,  times,  and  places ; 
and  to  jumble  his  disjointed  thoughts  together  in  a 
kind  of  mental  kaleidoscope,  producing  combina¬ 
tions  as  unexpected  as  they  are  transitory.  This 
was  Gabriel  Varden’s  state,  as,  nodding  in  his  dog- 
sleep,.  and  leaving  his  horse  to  pursue  a  road  with 
which  he  was  well  acquainted,  he  got  over  the 
ground  unconsciously,  and  drew  nearer  and  nearer 
home.  He  had  roused  himself  once,  when  the  horse 
stopped  until  the  turnpike -gate  was  opened,  and 
had  cried  a  lusty  “  good-night !”  to  the  toll-keeper ; 
hut  then  he  awoke  out  of  a  dream  about  picking  a 
lock  in  the  stomach  of  the  Great  Mogul,  and  even 
when  he  did  wake,  mixed  up  the  turnpike  man  with 
his  mother-in-law,  who  had  been  dead  twenty  years. 
It  is  not  surprising,  therefore,  that  he  soon  relapsed, 
and  jogged  heavily  along,  quite  insensible  to  his 
progress. 

And,  now,  he  approached  the  great  city,  which  lay 
outstretched  before  him  like  a  dark  shadow  on  the 
ground,  reddening  the  sluggish  air  with  a  deep  dull 
light,  that  told  of  labyrinths  of  public  ways  and 
shops,  and  swarms  of  busy  people.  Approaching 
nearer  and  nearer  yet,  this  halo  began  to  fade,  and 
the  causes  which .  produced  it  slowly  to  develop 
themselves.  Long  lines  of  poorly -lighted  streets 
might  be  faintly  traced,  with  here  and  there  a  light¬ 
er  spot,  where  lamps  were  clustered  round  a  square 
or  market,  or  round  some  great  building ;  after  a 
time  these  grew  more  distinct,  and  the  lamps  them¬ 
selves  were  visible ;  slight  yellow  specks,  that  seem¬ 
ed  to  be  rapidly  snuffed  out,  one  by  one,  as  interven¬ 
ing  obstacles  hid  them  from  the  sight.  Then,  sounds 
arose  —  the  striking  of  church  clocks,  the  distant 
bark  of  dogs,  the  hum  of  traffic  in  the  streets ;  then 
outlines  might  be  traced — tall  steeples  looming  in 
the  air,  and  piles  of  unequal  roofs  oppressed  by  chim¬ 
neys  ;  then  the  noise  swelled  into  a  louder  sound, 
and  forms  grew  more  distinct  and  numerous  still, 
and  London — visible  in  the  darkness  by  its  own 
faint  light,  and  not  by  that  of  heaven — was  at  hand. 

The  lock-smith,  however,  all  unconscious  of  its 
near  vicinity,  still  jogged  on,  half  sleeping  and  half 
waking,  when  a  loud  cry  at  no  great  distance  ahead, 
roused  him  with  a  start. 

For  a  moment  or  two  he  looked  about  him  like 
a  man  who  had  been  transported  to  some  strange 
country  in  his  sleep,  but  soon  recognizing  familiar 

2 


objects,  rubbed  his  eyes  lazily  and  might  have  re¬ 
lapsed  again,  but  that  the  cry  was  repeated — not 
once  or  twice  or  thrice,  but  many  times,  and  each 
time,  if  possible,  with  increased  vehemence.  Thor¬ 
oughly  aroused,  Gabriel,  who  was  a  bold  man  and 
not  easily  daunted,  made  straight  to  the  spot,  ur¬ 
ging  on  his  stout  little  horse  as  if  for  life  or  death. 

The  matter  indeed  looked  sufficiently  serious,  for, 
coming  to  the  place  whence  the  cries  had  proceeded, 
he  descried  the  figure  of  a  man  extended  in  an  ap¬ 
parently  lifeless  state  upon  the  pathway,  and,  hover¬ 
ing  ronnd  him,  another  person  with  a  torch  in  his 
hand,  which  he  waved  in  the  air  wdth  a  wild  impa¬ 
tience,  redoubling  meanwhile  those  cries  for  help 
which  had  brought  the  lock-smith  to  the  spot. 

“  What’s  here  to  do  ?”  said  the  old  man,  alighting. 
“  How’s  this — what — Barnaby  ?” 

The  bearer  of  the  torch  shook  his  long  loose  hair 
back  from  his  eyes,  and  thrusting  his  face  eagerly 
into  that  of  the  lock-smith,  fixed  upon  him  a  look 
which  told  his  history  at  once. 

“You  know  me,  Barnaby?”  said  Varden. 

He  nodded — not  once  or  twice,  but  a  score  of 
times,  and  that  with  a  fantastic  exaggeration  which 
would  have  kept  his  head  in  motion  for  an  hour,, 
but  that  the  lock-smith  held  up  his  finger,  and  fixing 
his  eye  sternly  upon  him  caused  him  to  desist ;  then 
pointed  to  the  body  with  an  inquiring  look. 

“  There’s  blood  upon  him,”  said  Barnaby,  with  a 
shudder.  “  It  makes  me  sick !” 

“How  came  it  there?”  demanded  Varden. 

“  Steel,  steel,  steel !”  he  replied  fiercely,  imitating 
with  his  hand  the  thrust  of  a  sword. 

“  Is  he  robbed  ?”  said  the  lock-smith. 

Barnaby  caught  him  by  the  arm,  and  nodded 
“  Yes then  pointed  toward  the  city. 

“  Oh !”  said  the  old  man,  bending  over  the  body 
and  looking  round  as  he  spoke  into  Barnaby’s  pale 
face,  strangely  lighted  up  by  something  that  was  not 
intellect.  “The  robber  made  off  that  way,  did  he ? 
Well,  well,  never  mind  that  just  now.  Hold  your 
torch  this  way — a  little  farther  off — so.  Now  stand 
quiet,  while  I  try  to  see  what  harm  is  done.” 

With  these  words,  he  applied  himself  to  a  closer 
examination  of  the  prostrate  form,  while  Barnaby, 
holding  the  torch  as  he  had  been  directed,  looked  on 
in  silence,  fascinated  by  interest  or  curiosity,  but  re¬ 
pelled  nevertheless  by  some  strong  and  secret  horror 
which  convulsed  him  in  every  nerve. 

As  he  stood,  at  that  moment,  half  shrinking  hack 
and  half  bending  forward,  both  his  face  and  figure 
were  full  in  the  strong  glare  of  the  link,  and  as  dis¬ 
tinctly  revealed  as  though  it  had  been  broad  day. 
He  wras  about  three -aud- twenty  years  old,  and 
though  rather  spare,  of  a  fair  height  and  strong 
make.  His  hair,  of  which  he  had  a  great  profusiou, 
was  red,  and  hanging  in  disorder  about  his  face  and 
shoulders,  gave  to  his  restless  looks  an  expression 
quite  unearthly — enhanced  by  the  paleness  of  his 
complexion,  and  the  glassy  lustre  of  his  large  pro¬ 
truding  eyes.  Startling  as  his  aspect  was,  the  fea¬ 
tures  were  good,  and  there  was  something  even 
plaintive  in  his  wan  and  haggard  aspect.  But,  the 
absence  of  the  soul  is  far  more  terrible  in  a  living 
man  than  in  a  dead  one ;  and  in  this  unfortunate 
being  its  noblest  powers  were  wanting. 


18 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


His  dress  was  of  green,  clumsily  trimmed  here 
and  there  —  apparently  by  his  own  hands  — with 
gaudy  lace ;  brightest  where  the  cloth  was  most 
worn  and  soiled,  and  poorest  where  it  was  at  the 
best.  A  pair  of  tawdry  ruffles  dangled  at  his  wrists, 
while  his  throat  was  nearly  bare.  He  had  orna¬ 
mented  his  hat  with  a  cluster  of  peacock’s  feathers, 
but  they  were  limp  and  broken,  and  now  trailed 


a  grotesque  contrast  set  off  and  heightened  the 
more  impressive  wildness  of  his  face. 

11  Barnaby,”  said  the  lock-smith,  after  a  hasty  but 
careful  inspection,  “  this  man  is  not  dead,  but  he  has 
a  wound  in  his  side,  and  is  in  a  fainting-fit.” 

u  I  know  him,  I  know  him !”  cried  Barnaby,  clap¬ 
ping  his  hands. 

“  Know  him  ?”  repeated  the  lock-smith. 


negligently  down  his  back.  Girt  to  his  side  was 
the  steel  hilt  of  an  old  sword  without  blade  or  scab¬ 
bard;  and  some  party-colored  ends  of  ribbons  and 
poor  glass  toys  completed  the  ornamental  portion  of 
his  attire.  The  fluttered  and  confused  disposition 
of  all  the  motley  scraps  that  formed  his  dress,  be¬ 
spoke,  in  a  scarcely  less  degree  than  his  eager  and 
unsettled  manner,  the  disorder  of  his  mind,  and  by 


“  Hush  !”  said  Barnaby,  laying  his  fingers  upon  his 
lips.  “  He  went  out  to-day  a-wooing.  I  wouldn’t 
for  a  light  guinea  that  he  should  never  go  a-wooing 
again,  for,  if  he  did,  some  eyes  would  grow  dim  that 
are  now  as  bright  as — see,  when  I  talk  of  eyes,  the 
stars  come  out !  Whose  eyes  are  they  ?  If  they  are 
angels’  eyes,  why  do  they  look  down  here  and  see  good 
men  hurt,  and  only  wink  and  sparkle  all  the  night  ?” 


THE  HOUSE  IN  CLEEKEN WELL . 


19 


“Now  Heaven  help  this  silly  fellow,”  murmured 
the  perplexed  lock-smith;  “can  he  know  this  gen¬ 
tleman  ?  His  mother’s  house  is  not  far  off ;  I  had 
better  see  if  she  can  tell  me  who  he  is.  Barnaby, 
my  man,  help  me  to  put  him  in  the  chaise,  and  we’ll 
ride  home  together.” 

“  I  can’t  touch  him !”  cried  the  idiot,  falling  back, 
and  shuddering  as  with  a  strong  spasm ;  “  he’s 
bloody !” 

“  It’s  in  his  nature  I  know,”  muttered  the  lock¬ 
smith,  “  it’s  cruel  to  ask  him,  but  I  must  have  help. 
Barnaby — good  Barnaby — dear  Barnaby — if  you 
know  this  gentleman,  for  the  sake  of  his  life  and 
every  body’s,  life  that  loves  him,  help  me  to  raise 
him  and  lay  him  down.” 

“  Cover  him  then,  wrap  him  close — don’t  let  me 
see  it — smell  it — hear  the  word.  Don’t  speak  the 
word — don’t !” 

“No,  no,  I’ll  not.  There,  you  see  he’s  covered 
now.  Gently.  Well  done,  well  done !” 

They  placed  him  in  the  carriage  with  great  ease, 
for  Barnaby  was  strong  and  active,  but  all  the  time 
they  were  so  occupied  he  shivered  from  head  to  foot, 
and  evidently  experienced  an  ecstasy  of  terror. 

This  accomplished,  and  the  wounded  man  being 
covered  with  Yarden’s  own  great-coat  which  he  took 
off  for  the  purpose,  they  proceeded  onward  at  a  brisk 
pace:  Barnaby  gayly  counting  the  stars  upon  his 
fingers,  and  Gabriel  inwardly  congratulating  him¬ 
self  upon  having  an  adventure  now,  which  would  si¬ 
lence  Mrs.  Varden  on  the  subject  of  the  Maypole,  for 
that  night,  or  there  was  no  faith  in  woman. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

N  the  venerable  suburb — it  was  a  suburb  once — 
of  Clerkenwell,  toward  that  part  of  its  confines 
which  is  nearest  to  the  Charter  House,  and  in  one 
of  those  cool,  shady  streets,  of  which  a  few,  widely 
scattered  and  dispersed,  yet  remain  in  such  old  parts 
of  the  metropolis — each  tenement  quietly  vegetating 
like  an  ancient  citizen  who  long  ago  retired  from 
business,  and  dozing  on  in  its  infirmity  until  in 
course  of  time  it  tumbles  down,  and  is  replaced  by 
some  extravagant  young  heir,  flaunting  in  stucco 
and  ornamental  work,  and  all  the  vanities  of  modern 
days — in  this  quarter,  and  in  a  street  of  this  descrip¬ 
tion,  the  business  of  the  present  chapter  lies. 

At  the  time  of  which  it  treats,  though  only  six- 
and-sixty  years  ago,  a  very  large  part  of  what  is 
London  now  had  no  existence.  Even  in  the  brains 
of  the  wildest  speculators,  there  had  sprung  up  no 
long  rows  of  streets  connecting  Highgate  with  White¬ 
chapel,  no  assemblages  of  palaces  in  the  swampy  lev¬ 
els,  nor  little  cities  in  the  open  fields.  Although  this 
part  of  town  was  then,  as  now,  parceled  out  in  streets, 
and  plentifully  peopled,  it  wore  a  different  aspect. 
There  were  gardens  to  many  of  the  houses,  and  trees 
by  the  pavement  side;  with  an  air  of  freshness 
breathing  up  and  down,  which  in  these  days  would 
be  sought  in  vain.  Fields  were  nigh  at  hand,  through 
which  the  New  River  took  its  winding  course,  and 
where  there  was  merry  hay-making  in  the  summer¬ 
time.  Nature  was  not  so  far  removed,  or  hard  to 


get  at,  as  in  these  days ;  and  although  there  were 
busy  trades  in  Clerkenwell,  and  working  jewelers 
by  scores,  it  was  a  purer  place,  with  farm-houses 
nearer  to  it  than  many  modern  Londoners  would 
readily  believe,  and  lovers’  walks  at  no  great  dis¬ 
tance,  which  turned  into  squalid  courts,  long  before 
the  lovers  of  this  age  were  born,  or,  as  the  phrase 
goes,  thought  of. 

In  one  of  these  streets,  the  cleanest  of  them  all, 
and  on  the  shady  side  of  the  way — for  good  house¬ 
wives  know  that  sunlight  damages  their  cherished 
furniture,  and  so  choose  the  shade  rather  than  its  in¬ 
trusive  glare — there  stood  the  house  with  which  we 
have  to  deal.  It  was  a  modest  building,  not  very 
straight,  not  large,  not  tall ;  not  bold-faced,  with 
great  staring  windows,  but  a  shy,  blinking  house, 
with  a  conical  roof  going  up  into  a  peak  over  its 
garret- window  of  four  small  panes  of  glass,  like  a 
cocked  hat  on  the  head  of  an  elderly  gentleman  with 
one  eye.  It  was  not  built  of  brick  or  lofty  stone, 
but  of  wood  and  plaster ;  it  was  not  planned  with  a 
dull  and  wearisome  regard  to  regularity,  for  no  one 
window  matched  the  other,  or  seemed  to  have  the 
slightest  reference  to  any  thing  besides  itself. 

The  shop — for  it  had  a  shop — was,  with  reference 
to  the  first  floor,  where  shops  usually  are ;  and  there 
all  resemblance  between  it  and  any  other  shop  stop¬ 
ped  short  and  ceased.  People  who  went  in  and  out 
didn’t  go  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  it,  or  walk  easily  in 
upon  a  level  with  the  street,  but  dived  down  three 
steep  stairs,  as  into  a  cellar.  Its  floor  was  paved 
with  stone  and  brick,  as  that  of  any  other  cellar 
might  be ;  and  in  lieu  of  window  framed  and  glazed 
it  had  a  great  black  wooden  flap  or  shutter,  nearly 
breast  high  from  the  ground,  which  turned  back  in 
the  daytime,  admitting  as  much  cold  air  as  light, 
and  very  often  more.  Behind  this  shop  was  a  wain¬ 
scoted  parlor,  looking  first  into  a  paved  yard,  and 
beyond  that  again  into  a  little  terrace  garden,  raised 
some  feet  above  it.  Any  stranger  would  have  sup¬ 
posed  that  this  wainscoted  parlor,  saving  for  the 
door  of  communication  by  which  he  had  entered, 
was  cut  off  and  detached  from  all  the  world;  and 
indeed  most  strangers  on  their  first  entrance  were 
observed  to  grow  extremely  thoughtful,  as  weigh¬ 
ing  and  pondering  in  their  minds  whether  the  upper 
rooms  were  only  approachable  by  ladders  from  with¬ 
out  ;  never  suspecting  that  two  of  the  most  unas¬ 
suming  and  unlikely  doors  in  existence,  which  the 
most  ingenious  mechanician  on  earth  must  of  neces¬ 
sity  have  supposed  to  be  the  doors  of  closets,  opened 
out  of  this  room— each  without  the  smallest  prepa¬ 
ration,  or  so  much  as  a  quarter  of  an  inch  of  passage 
— upon  two  dark  winding  flights  of  stairs,  the  one 
upward,  the  other  downward,  which  were  the  sole 
means  of  communication  between  that  chamber  and 
the  other  portions  of  the  house. 

With  all  these  oddities,  there  was  not  a  neater, 
more  scrupulously  tidy,  or  more  punctiliously  order¬ 
ed  house,  in  Clerkenwell,  in  London,  in  all  England. 
There  were  not  cleaner  windows,  or  whiter  floors,  or 
brighter  stoves,  or  more  highly  shining  articles  of 
furniture  in  old  mahogany ;  there  w'as  not  more  rub¬ 
bing,  scrubbing,  burnishing  and  polishing,  in  the 
whole  street  put  together.  Nor  was  this  excellence 
attained  without  some  cost  and  trouble  and  great 


20 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


expenditure  of  voice,  as  the  neighbors  were  frequent¬ 
ly  reminded  when  the  good  lady  of  the  house  over¬ 
looked  and  assisted  in  its  being  put  to  rights  on 
cleaning  days — which  were  usually  from  Monday 
morning  till  Saturday  night,  both  days  inclusive. 

Leaning  against  the  door-post  of  this,  his  dwell¬ 
ing,  the  lock-smith  stood  early  on  the  morning  after 
he  had  met  with  the  wounded  man,  gazing  disconso¬ 
lately  at  a  great  wooden  emblem  of  a  key,  painted  in 
vivid  yellow  to  resemble  gold,  which  dangled  from 
the  house  front,  and  swung  to  and  fro  with  a  mourn¬ 
ful  creaking  noise,  as  if  complaining  that  it  had  noth¬ 
ing  to  unlock.  Sometimes,  he  looked  over  his  shoul¬ 
der  into  the  shop,  which  was  so  dark  and  dingy  with 
numerous  tokens  of  his  trade,  and  so  blackened  by 
the  smoke  of  a  little  forge,  near  which  his  ’prentice 
was  at  work,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult  for 
one  unused  to  such  espials  to  have  distinguished  any 
thing  but  various  tools  of  uncouth  make  and  shape, 
great  bunches  of  rusty  keys,  fragments  of  iron,  half- 
finished  locks,  and  such  like  things,  which  garnished 
the  walls  and  hung  in  clusters  from  the  ceiling. 

After  a  long  and  patient  contemplation  of  the 
golden  key,  and  many  such  backward  glances,  Ga¬ 
briel  stepped  into  the  road,  and  stole  a  look  at  the 
upper  windows.  One  of  them  chanced  to  be  thrown 
open  at  the  moment,  and  a  roguish  face  met  his ;  a 
face  lighted  up  by  the  loveliest  pair  of  sparkling 
eyes  that  ever  lock -smith  looked  upon;  the  face 
of  a  pretty,  laughing,  girl;  dimpled  and  fresh,  and 
healthful — the  very  impersonation  of  good  humor 
and  blooming  beauty. 

“  Hush !”  she  whispered,  bending  forward  and 
pointiug  archly  to  the  window  underneath.  “Moth¬ 
er  is  still  asleep.” 

“  Still,  my  dear,”  returned  the  lock-smith  in  the 
same  tone.  “  You  talk  as  if  she  had  been  asleep  all 
night,  instead  of  little  more  than  half  an  hour.  But 
I’m  very  thankful.  Sleep’s  a  blessing — no  doubt 
about  it.”  The  last  few  words  he  muttered  to  him¬ 
self. 

“How  cruel  of  you  to  keep  us  up  so  late  this 
morning,  and  never  tell  us  wLere  you  were,  or  send 
us  word  !”  said  the  girl. 

“Ah  Dolly,  Dolly  !”  returned  the  lock-smith,  shak¬ 
ing  his  head,  and  smiling,  “how  cruel  of  you  to  run 
up  stairs  to  bed !  Come  down  to  breakfast,  madcap, 
and  come  down  lightly,  or  you’ll  wake  your  mother. 
She  must  be  tired,  I  am  sure — I  am.” 

Keeping  these  latter  words  to  himself,  and  return¬ 
ing  his  daughter’s  nod,  he  was  passing  into  the  work¬ 
shop,  with  the  smile  she  had  awakened  still  beam¬ 
ing  on  his  face,  when  he  just  caught  sight  of  his 
’prentice’s  brown  paper  cap  ducking  down  to  avoid 
observation,  and  shrinking  from  the  window  back 
to  its  former  place,  which  the  wearer  no  sooner 
reached  than  he  began  to  hammer  lustily. 

“  Listening  again,  Simon !”  said  Gabriel  to  him¬ 
self.  “That’s  bad.  What  in  the  name  of  wonder 
does  he  expect  the  girl  to  say,  that  I  always  catch 
him  listening  when  she  speaks,  and  never  at  any 
other  time  ?  A  bad  habit,  Sim,  a  sneaking,  under¬ 
handed  way.  Ah !  you  may  hammer,  but  you  won’t 
beat  that  out  of  me,  if  you  work  at  it  till  your  time’s 
up !” 

So  saying,  and  shaking  his  head  gravely,  he  re¬ 


entered  the  workshop,  and  confronted  the  subject 
of  these  remarks. 

“  There’s  enough  of  that  just  now,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith.  “You  needn’t  make  any  more  of  that  con¬ 
founded  clatter.  Breakfast’s  ready.” 

“Sir,”  said  Sim,  looking  up  with  amazing  polite¬ 
ness,  and  a  peculiar  little  bow  cut  short  off  at  the 
neck.  “  I  shall  attend  you  immediately.” 

“  I  suppose,”  muttered  Gabriel,  “  that’s  out  of  the 
’Prentice’s  Garland,  or  the  ’Prentice’s  Delight,  or  the 
’Prentice’s  Warbler,  or  the  ’Prentice’s  Guide  to  the 
Gallows,  or  some  such  improving  text-book.  How 
he’s  going  to  beautify  himself — here’s  a  precious 
lock-smith !” 

Quite  unconscious  that  his  master  was  looking  on 
from  the  dark  corner  by  the  parlor  door,  Sim  threw 
off  the  paper  cap,  sprang  from  his  seat,  and  in  two 
extraordinary  steins,  something  between  skating  and 
minuet  dancing,  bounded  to  a  washing-place  at  the 
other  end  of  the  shop,  and  there  removed  from  his 
face  and  hands  all  traces  of  his  previous  work — 
practicing  the  same  step  all  the  time  with  the  ut¬ 
most  gravity.  This  done,  he  drew  from  some  con¬ 
cealed  place  a  little  scrap  of  looking-glass,  and  with 
its  assistance  arranged  his  hair,  and  ascertained  the 
exact  state  of  a  little  carbuncle  on  his  nose.  Hav¬ 
ing  now  completed  his  toilet,  he  placed  the  frag¬ 
ment  of  mirror  on  a  low  bench,  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder  at  so  much  of  his  legs  as  could  be  reflect¬ 
ed  in  that  small  compass,  with  the  greatest  possible 
complacency  and  satisfaction. 

Sim,  as  he  was  called  in  the  lock-smith’s  family, 
or  Mr.  Simon  Tappertit,  as  he  called  himself,  and  re¬ 
quired  all  men  to  style  him  out-of-doors,  on  holidays, 
and  Sundays  out,  was  an  old-fashioned,  thin-faced, 
sleek-haired,  sharp-nosed,  small-eyed  little  fellow, 
very  little  more  than  five  feet  high,  and  thoroughly 
convinced  in  his  own  mind  that  he  was  above  the 
middle  size ;  rather  tall,  in  fact,  than  otherwise.  Of 
his  figure,  which  was  well  enough  formed,  though 
somewhat  of  the  leanest,  he  entertained  the  high¬ 
est  admiration ;  and  with  his  legs,  which,  in  knee- 
breeches,  were  perfect  curiosities  of  littleness,  he 
was  enraptured  to  a  degree  amounting  to  enthusi¬ 
asm.  He  also  had  some  majestic,  shadowy  ideas, 
which  had  never  been  quite  fathomed  by  liis  inti¬ 
mate  friends,  concerning  the  power  of  his  eye.  In¬ 
deed  he  had  been  known  to  go  so  far  as  to  boast 
that  he  could  utterly  quell  and  subdue  the  haughti¬ 
est  beauty  by  a  simple  process,  which  he  termed 
“  eying  her  over ;”  but  it  must  be  added,  that  nei¬ 
ther  of  this  faculty,  nor  of  the  power  he  claimed  to 
have,  through  the  same  gift,  of  vanquishing  and 
heaving  down  dumb  animals,  even  in  a  rabid  state, 
had  he  ever  furnished  evidence  which  could  be  deem¬ 
ed  quite  satisfactory  and  conclusive. 

It  may  be  inferred  from  these  premises,  that  in 
the  small  body  of  Mr.  Tappertit  there  was  locked  up 
an  ambitious  and  aspiring  soul.  As  certain  liquors, 
confined  in  casks  too  cramped  in  their  dimensions, 
will  ferment,  and  fret,  and  chafe  in  their  imprison¬ 
ment,  so  the  spiritual  essence  or  soul  of  Mr.  Tapper¬ 
tit  would  sometimes  fume  within  that  precious  cask, 
his  body,  until,  with  great  foam  and  froth  and  splut¬ 
ter,  it  would  force  a  vent,  and  carry  all  before  it.  It 
was  his  custom  to  remark,  in  reference  to  any  one 


ABOUT  YOUNG  MB.  CHESTER. 


21 


of  these  occasions,  that  his  sonl  had  got  into  his 
head;  and  in  this  novel  kind  of  intoxication  many 
scrapes  and  mishaps  befell  him  which  he  had  fre¬ 
quently  concealed  with  no  small  difficulty  from  his 
worthy  master. 

Sim  Tappertit,  among  the  other  fancies  upon 
which  his  before-mentioned  sonl  was  forever  feast¬ 
ing  and  regaling  itself  (and  which  fancies,  like  the 
liver  of  Prometheus,  grew  as  they  were  fed  upon), 
had  a  mighty  notion  of  his  order ;  and  had  been 
heard  by  the  servant-maid  openly  expressing  his 
regret  that  the  ’prentices  no  longer  carried  clubs 
wherewith  to  mace  the  citizens :  that  was  his  strong 
expression.  He  was  likewise  reported  to  have  said 
that  in  former  times  a  stigma  had  been  cast  upon 
the  body  by  the  execution  of  George  Barnwell,  to 
which  they  should  not  have  basely  submitted,  but 
should  have  demanded  him  of  the  legislature — tem¬ 
perately  at  first ;  then  by  an  appeal  to  arms,  if  nec¬ 
essary — to  be  dealt  with  as  they  in  their  wisdom 
might  think  fit.  These  thoughts  always  led  him  to 
consider  what  a  glorious  engine  the  ’prentices  might 
yet  become  if  they  had  but  a  master-spirit  at  their 
head ;  and  then  he  would  darkly,  and  to  the  terror 
of  his  hearers,  hint  at  certain  reckless  fellows  that 
he  knew  of,  and  at  a  certain  Lion  Heart  ready  to  be¬ 
come  their  captain,  who,  once  afoot,  would  make  the 
Lord  Mayor  tremble  on  his  throne. 

In  respect  of  dress  and  personal  decoration,  Sim 
Tappertit  was  no  less  of  an  adventurous  and  enter¬ 
prising  character.  He  had  been  seen,  beyond  dis¬ 
pute,  to  pull  oft’  ruffles  of  the  finest  quality  at  the 
corner  of  the  street  on  Sunday  nights,  and  to  put 
them  carefully  in  his  pocket  before  returning  home ; 
and  it  was  quite  notorious  that  on  all  great  holiday 
occasions  it  was  his  habit  to  exchange  his  plain 
steel  knee-buckles  for  a  pair  of  glittering  paste,  un¬ 
der  cover  of  a  friendly  post,  planted  most  conven¬ 
iently  in  that  same  spot.  Add  to  this  that  he  was 
in  years  just  twenty,  in  his  looks  much  older,  and  in 
conceit  at  least  two  hundred;  that  he  had  no  objec¬ 
tion  to  be  jested  with,  touching  his  admiration  of 
his  master’s  daughter ;  and  had  even,  when  called 
upon  at  a  certain  obscure  tavern  to  pledge  the  lady 
whom  he  honored  with  his  love,  toasted,  with  many 
winks  and  leers,  a  fair  creature  whose  Christian 
name,  he  said,  began  with  a  D ;  and  as  much  is 
known  of  Sim  Tappertit,  who  has  by  this  time  fol¬ 
lowed  the  lock-smith  in  to  breakfast,  as  is  necessary 
to  be  known  in  making  his  acquaintance. 

It  was  a  substantial  meal;  for,  over  and  above 
the  ordinary  tea  equipage,  the  board  creaked  be¬ 
neath  the  weight  of  a  jolly  round  of  beef,  a  ham  of 
the  first  magnitude,  and  sundry  towers  of  buttered 
Yorkshire  cake,  piled  slice  upon  slice  in  most  allur¬ 
ing  order.  There  was  also  a  goodly  jug  of  well- 
browned  clay,  fashioned  into  the  form  of  an  old  gen¬ 
tleman,  not  by  any  means  unlike  the  lock-smith,  atop 
of  whose  bald  head  was  a  fine  white  froth  answering 
to  his  wig,  indicative,  beyond  dispute,  of  sparkling 
home-brewed  ale.  But,  better  far  than  fair  home¬ 
brewed,  or  Yorkshire  cake,  or  ham,  or  beef,  or  any 
thing  to  eat  or  drink  that  earth  or  air  or  water  can 
supply,  there  sat,  presiding  over  all,  the  lock-smith’s 
rosy  daughter,  before  whose  dark  eyes  even  beef  grew 
insignificant,  and  malt  became  as  nothing. 


Fathers  should  never  kiss  their  daughters  when 
young  men  are  by.  It’s  too  much.  There  are  bounds 
to  human  endurance.  So  thought  Sim  Tappertit 
when  Gabriel  drew  those  rosy  lips  to  his — those  lips 
within  Sim’s  reach  from  day  to  day,  and  yet  so  far 
off.  He  had  a  respect  for  his  master,  but  he  wished 
the  Yorkshire  cake  might  choke  him. 

'“Father,”  said  the  lock-smith’s  daughter,  when  this 
salute  was  over,  and  they  took  their  seats  at  table. 
“  What  is  this  I  hear  about  last  night  ?” 

“  All  true,  my  dear ;  true  as  the  Gospel,  Doll.” 

“Young  Mr.  Chester  robbed,  and  lying  wounded 
in  the  road,  when  you  came  up !” 

“Ay — Mr.  Edward.  And  beside  him,  Barnaby, 
calling  for  help  with  all  his  might.  It  was  well  it 
happened  as  it  did ;  for  the  road’s  a  lonely  one,  the 
hour  was  late,  and,  the  night  being  cold,  and  poor 
Barnaby  eveu  less  sensible  than  usual  from  surprise 
and  fright,  the  young  gentleman  might  have  met  his 
death  in  a  very  short  time.” 

“I  dread  to  think  of  it!”  cried  his  daughter,  with 
a  shudder.  “  How  did  you  know  him  ?” 

“  Know  him !”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “  I  didn’t 
know  him  —  how  could  I?  I  had  never  seen  him, 
often  as  I  had  heard  and  spoken  of  him.  I  took  him 
to  Mrs.  Budge’s ;  and  she  no  sooner  saw  him  than 
the  truth  came  out.” 

“Miss  Emma,  father — if  this  news  should  reach 
her,  enlarged  upon  as  it  is  sure  to  be,  she  will  go  dis¬ 
tracted.” 

“Why,  look  ye  there  again,  how  a  man  suffers  for 
being  good-natured,”  said  the  lock-smith.  “Miss 
Emma  was  with  her  uncle  at  the  masquerade  at 
Carlisle  House,  where  she  had  gone,  as  the  people  at 
the  Warren  told  me,  sorely  against  her  will.  What 
does  your  blockhead  father  when  he  and  Mrs.  Budge 
have  laid  their  heads  together,  but  goes  there  when 
he  ought  to  be  abed,  makes  iuterest  with  his  friend 
the  door-keeper,  slips  him  on  a  mask  and  domino, 
and  mixes  with  the  masquers.” 

“And  like  himself  to  do  so !”  cried  the  girl,  putting 
her  fair  arm  round  his  neck,  and  giving  him  a  most 
enthusiastic  kiss. 

“Like  himself!”  repeated  Gabriel,  affecting  to 
grumble,  but  evidently  delighted  with  the  part  he 
had  taken,  and  with  her  praise.  “  Very  like  himself 
— so  your  mother  said.  However,  he  mingled  with 
the  crowd,  and  prettily  worried  and  badgered  he 
was,  I  warrant  you,  with  people  squeaking,  ‘  Don’t 
you  know  me?’  and  ‘I’ve  found  you  out,’  and  all 
that  kind  of  nonsense  in  his  ears.  He  might  have 
wandered  on  till  now,  but  in  a  little  room  there  was 
a  young  lady  who  had  taken  off  her  mask,  on  ac¬ 
count  of  the  place  being  very  warm,  and  was  sitting 
there  alone.” 

“And  that  was  she  ?”  said  his  daughter,  hastily. 

“And  that  was  she,”  replied  the  lock-smith ;  “  and 
I  no  sooner  whispered  to  her  what  the  matter  was — 
as  softly,  Doll,  and  with  nearly  as  much  art  as  you 
could  have  used  yourself — than  she  gives  a  kind  of 
scream  and  faints  away.” 

“  What  did  you  do — what  happened  next  ?”  asked 
his  daughter. 

“  Why  the  masks  came  flocking  round,  with  a  gen¬ 
eral  noise  and  hubbub,  and  I  thought  myself  in  luck 
to  get  clear  off,  that’s  all,”  rejoined  the  lock-smith. 


22 


B  AREA  BY  BUDGE. 


“What  happened  when  I  reached  home  you  may 
guess,  if  you  didn’t  hear  it.  Ah!  Well,  it’s  a  poor 
heart  that  never  rejoices. — Put  Toby  this  way,  my 
dear.” 

This  Toby  was  the  brown  jug  of  which  previous 
mention  has  been  made.  Applying  his  lips  to  the 
worthy  old  gentleman’s  benevolent  forehead,  the 
lock -smith,  who  had  all  this  time  been  ravaging 
among  the  eatables,  kept  them  there  so  long,  at  the 
same  time  raising  the  vessel  slowly  in  the  air,  that 
at  length  Toby  stood  on  his  head  upon  his  nose, 
when  he  smacked  his  lips,  and  set  him  on  the  table 
again  with  fond  reluctance. 


“  Why,  what  the  devil’s  the  matter  with  the  lad  ?” 
cried  the  lock-smith.  “Is  he  choking?” 

“  Who  ?”  demanded  Sim,  with  some  disdain. 

“Who?  why, you,”  returned  his  master.  “What 
do  you  mean  by  making  those  horrible  faces  over 
your  breakfast  ?” 

“  Faces  are  matters  of  taste,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tapper- 
tit,  rather  discomfited ;  not  the  less  so  because  he 
saw  the  lock-smith’s  daughter  smiling. 

“  Sim,”  rej oined  Gabriel,  laughing  heartily.  “  Don’t 
be  a  fool,  for  I’d  rather  see  you  in  your  senses.  These 
young  fellows,”  he  added,  turning  to  his  daughter, 
“are  always  committing  some  folly  or  another. 


|ii« 


ifjfpi 

. 

1 

,  !IB 

THOSE  LIPS  WITHIN  SIM'S  EEAOH  FEOM  DAY  TO  DAY,  AND  YET  SO  FAR  OFF. 


Although  Sim  Tappertit  had  taken  no  share  in 
this  conversation,  no  part  of  it  being  addressed  to 
him,  he  had  not  been  wanting  in  such  silent  mani¬ 
festations  of  astonishment,  as  he  deemed  most  com¬ 
patible  with  the  favorable  display  of  his  eyes.  Re¬ 
garding  the  pause  -which  now  ensued,  as  a  particu¬ 
larly  advantageous  opportunity  for  doing  great  ex¬ 
ecution  with  them  upon  the  lock-smith’s  daughter 
(who,  he  had  no  doubt,  was  looking  at  him  in  mute 
admiration),  he  began  to  screw  and  twist  his  face, 
and  especially  those  features,  into  such  extraordina¬ 
ry,  hideous,  and  unparalleled  contortions,  that  Ga¬ 
briel,  who  happened  to  look  toward  him,  was  strick¬ 
en  with  amazement. 


There  was  a  quarrel  between  Joe  Willet  and  old 
John  last  night — though  I  can’t  say  Joe  wras  much 
in  fault  either.  He’ll  be  missing  one  of  these  morn¬ 
ings,  and  will  have  gone  away  upon  some  wild-goose 
errand,  seeking  his  fortune. — Why,  what’s  the  mat¬ 
ter,  Doll  ?  You  are  making  faces  now.  The  girls 
are  as  bad  as  the  boys  every  bit !” 

“  It’s  the  tea,”  said  Dolly,  turning  alternately  very 
red  and  very  white,  which  is  no  doubt  the  effect  of 
a  slight  scald — “  so  very  hot.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  looked  immensely  big  at  a  quartern- 
loaf  on  the  table,  and  breathed  hard. 

“  Is  that  all  ?”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “  Put  some 
more  milk  in  it. — Yes,  I  am  sorry  for  Joe,  because  he 


THE  MOTHER  OF  BARNABY. 


23 


is  a  likely  young  fellow,  and  gains  upon  one  every 
time  one  sees  him.  But  he’ll  start  off,  you’ll  find. 
Indeed  he  told  me  as  much  himself!” 

“Indeed!”  cried  Dolly,  in  a  faint  voice.  “In — 
deed !” 

“  Is  the  tea  tickling  your  throat  still,  my  dear  ?” 
said  the  lock-smith. 

But,  before  his  daughter  could  make  him  any  an¬ 
swer,  she  was  taken  with  a  troublesome  cough,  and 
it  was  such  a  very  unpleasant  cough,  that,  when  she 
left  off,  the  tears  were  starting  in  her  bright  eyes. 
The  good-natured  lock-smith  was  still  patting  her  on 
the  back  and  applying  such  gentle  restoratives,  when 
a  message  arrived  from  Mrs.  Varden,  making  known 
to  all  whom  it  might  concern,  that  she  felt  too  much 
indisposed  to  rise  after  her  great  agitation  and  anx¬ 
iety  of  the  previous  night ;  and  therefore  desired  to 
be  immediately  accommodated  with  the  little  black 
tea-pot  of  strong  mixed  tea,  a  couple  of  rounds  of 
buttered  toast,  a  middling-sized  dish  of  beef  and  ham 
cut  thin,  and  the  Protestant  Manual  in  two  volumes 
post  octavo.  Like  some  other  ladies  who  in  remote 
ages  flourished  upon  this  globe,  Mrs.  Yarden  was 
most  devout  when  most  ill-tempered.  Whenever 
she  and  her  husband  were  at  unusual  variance,  then 
the  Protestant  Manual  was  in  high  feather. 

Knowing  from  experience  what  these  requests 
portended,  the  triumvirate  broke  up ;  Dolly,  to  see 
the  orders  executed  with  all  dispatch ;  Gabriel,  to 
some  out-of-door  work  in  his  little  chaise  ;  and  Sim, 
to  his  daily  duty  in  the  workshop,  to  which  retreat 
he  carried  the  big  look,  although  the  loaf  remained 
behind. 

Indeed  the  big  look  increased  immensely,  and 
when  he  had  tied  his  apron  on,  became  quite  gigan¬ 
tic.  It  was  not  until  he  had  several  times  walked 
up  and  down  with  folded  arms,  and  the  longest 
strides  he  could  take,  and  had  kicked  a  great  many 
small  articles  out  of  his  way,  that  his  lip  began  to 
curl.  At  length,  a  gloomy  derision  came  upon  his 
features,  and  he  smiled ;  uttering  meanwhile  with 
supreme  contempt  the  monosyllable  “  Joe !” 

“I  eyed  her  over,  while  he  talked  about  the  fel¬ 
low,”  he  said,  “  and  that  was  of  course  the  reason  of 
her  being. confused.  Joe!” 

He  walked  up  and  down  again  much  quicker  than 
before,  and  if  possible  with  longer  strides ;  some¬ 
times  stopping  to  take  a  glance  at  his  legs,  and 
sometimes  to  jerk  out,  and  cast  from  him,  another 
“Joe!”  In  the  course  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  so 
he  again  assumed  the  paper  cap  and  tried  to  work. 
No.  It  could  not  be  done. 

“I’ll  do  nothing  to-day,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  dash¬ 
ing  it  down  again,  “  but  grind.  I’ll  grind  up  all  the 
tools.  Grinding  will  suit  my  present  humor  well. 
Joe !” 

Whirr-r-r-r.  The  grindstone  was  soon  in  motion  ,• 
the  sparks  were  flying  off  in  showers.  This  was  the 
occupation  for  his  heated  spirit. 

Whi  rr-r-r-r-r-r-r. 

“  Something  will  come  of  this !”  said  Mr.  Tapper- 
tit,  pausing  as  if  in  triumph,  and  wiping  his  heated 
face  upon  his  sleeve.  “  Something  will  come  of  this. 
I  hope  it  mayn’t  be  human  gore !” 

Wh  irr-r-r-r-r-r-r-r . 


CHAPTER  Y. 

AS  soon  as  the  business  of  the  day  was  over,  the 
lock -smith  sallied  forth,  alone,  to  visit  the 
wounded  gentleman  and  ascertain  the  progress  of 
his  recovery.  The  house  where  he  had  left  him 
was  in  a  by-street  in  Southwark,  not  far  from  Lon¬ 
don  Bridge ;  and  thither  he  hied  with  all  speed, 
bent  upon  returning  with  as  little  delay  as  might 
be,  and  getting  to  bed  betimes. 

The  evening  was  boisterous — scarcely  better  than 
the  previous  night  had  been.  It  was  not  easy  for  a 
stout  man  like  Gabriel  to  keep  his  legs  at  the  street 
corners,  or  to  make  head  against  the  high  wind, 
which  often  fairly  got  the  better  of  him,  and  drove 
him  back  some  paces,  or,  in  defiance  of  all  his  ener¬ 
gy,  forced  him  to  take  shelter  in  an  arch  or  door¬ 
way  until  the  fury  of  the  gust  was  spent.  Occa¬ 
sionally  a  hat  or  wig,  or  both,  came  spinning  and 
trundling  past  him,  like  a  mad  thing;  while  the 
more  serious  spectacle  of  falling  tiles  and  slates,  or 
of  masses  of  brick  and  mortar  or  fragments  of  stone¬ 
coping  rattling  upon  the  pavement  near  at  hand, 
and  splitting  into  fragments,  did  not  increase  the 
pleasure  of  the  journey,  or  make  the  way  less  dreary. 

“A  trying  night  for  a  man  like  me  to  walk  in !” 
said  the  lock -smith,  as  he  knocked  softly  at  the 
widow’s  door.  “I’d  rather  be  in  old  John’s  chim¬ 
ney-corner,  faith !” 

“Who’s  there?”  demanded  a  woman’s  voice  from 
within.  Beiug  answered,  it  added  a  hasty  word  of 
welcome,  and  the  door  was  quickly  opened. 

She  was  about  forty — perhaps  two  or  three  years 
older — with  a  cheerful  aspect,  and  a  face  that  had 
once  been  pretty.  It  bore  traces  of  affliction  and 
care,  but  they  were  of  an  old  date,  and  Time  had 
smoothed  them.  Any  one  who  had  bestowed  but  a 
casual  glance  on  Barnaby  might  have  known  that 
this  was  his  mother,  from  the  strong  resemblance 
between  them ;  but  where  in  his  face  there  was 
wildness  and  vacancy,  in  hers  there  was  the  patient 
composure  of  long  effort  and  quiet  resignation. 

One  thing  about  this  face  was  very  strange  and 
startling.  You  could  not  look  upon  it  in  its  most 
cheerful  mood  without  feeling  that  it  had  some  ex¬ 
traordinary  capacity  of  expressing  terror.  It  was 
not  on  the  surface.  It  was  in  no  one  feature  that  it 
lingered.  You  could  not  take  the  eyes  or  mouth,  or 
lines  upon  the  cheek,  and  say,  if  this  or  that  were 
otherwise,  it  would  not  be  so.  Yet  there  it  always 
lurked  —  something  forever  dimly  seen,  but  ever 
there,  and  never  absent  for  a  moment.  It  was  the 
faintest,  palest  shadow  of  some  look,  to  which  an 
instant  of  intense  and  most  unutterable  horror  only 
could  have  given  birth;  but  indistinct  and  feeble 
as  it  was,  it  did  suggest  what  that  look  must  have 
been,  and  fixed  it  in  the  mind  as  if  it  had  had  exist¬ 
ence  in  a  dream. 

More  faintly  imaged,  and  wanting  force  and  pur¬ 
pose,  as  it  were,  because  of  his  darkened  intellect, 
there  was  this  same  stamp  upon  the  son.  Seen  in  a 
picture,  it  must  have  had  some  legend  with  it,  and 
would  have  haunted  those  who  looked  upon  the  can¬ 
vas.  They  who  knew  the  Maypole  story,  and  could 
remember  what  the  widow  was,  before  her  husband’s 
and  his  master’s  murder,  understood  it  well.  They 


24 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


recollected  how  the  change  had  come,  and  could  call 
to  mind  that  when  her  son  was  horn,  upon  the  very 
day  the  deed  was  known,  he  bore  upon  his  wrist 
what  seemed  a  smear  of  blood  hut  half  washed  out. 

“God  save  you,  neighbor!”  said  the  lock-smith,  as 
he  followed  her,  with  the  air  of  an  old  friend,  into  a 
little  parlor  where  a  cheerful  fire  was  burning. 

“And  you,”  she  answered,  smiling.  “Your  kind 
heart  has  brought  you  here  again.  Nothing  will 
keep  you  at  home,  I  know  of  old,  if  there  are  friends 
to  serve  or  comfort,  out-of-doors.” 

“  Tut,  tut,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  rubbing  his 
hands  and  warming  them.  “You  women  are  such 
talkers.  What  of  the  patient,  neighbor  ?” 

“He  is  sleeping  now.  He  was  very  restless  to¬ 
ward  daylight,  and  for  some  hours  tossed  and  tum¬ 
bled  sadly.  But  the  fever  has  left  him,  and  the 
doctor  says  he  will  soon  mend.  He  must  not  be  re¬ 
moved  until  to-morrow.” 

“  He  has  had  visitors  to-day — humph  ?”  said  Ga¬ 
briel,  slyly. 

“  Yes.  Old  Mr.  Chester  has  been  here  ever  since 
we  sent  for  him,  and  had  not  been  gone  many  min¬ 
utes  when  you  knocked.” 

“  No  ladies  ?”  said  Gabriel,  elevating  his  eyebrows 
and  looking  disappointed. 

“A  letter,”  replied  the  widow. 

“  Come.  That’s  better  than  nothing !”  replied  the 
lock-smith.  “  Who  was  the  bearer  ?” 

“  Barnaby,  of  course.” 

“Barnaby’s  a  jewel!”  said  Yarden;  “and  comes 
and  goes  with  ease  where  we  who  think  ourselves 
much  wiser  would  make  but  a  poor  hand  of  it.  He 
is  not  out  wandering,  again,  I  hope  ?” 

“  Thank  Heaven,  he  is  in  his  bed ;  having  been  up 
all  night,  as  you  know,  and  on  his  feet  all  day.  He 
was  quite  tired  out.  Ah,  neighbor,  if  I  could  but 
see  him  oftener  so — if  I  could  but  tame  down  that 
terrible  restlessness — ” 

“  In  good  time,”  said  the  lock-smith,  kindly,  “  in 
good  time — don’t  be  downhearted.  To  my  mind 
he  grows  wiser  every  day.” 

The  widow  shook  her  head.  And  yet,  though  she 
knew  the  lock-smith  sought  to  cheer  her,  and  spoke 
from  no  conviction  of  his  own,  she  was  glad  to  hear 
even  this  praise  of  her  poor  benighted  son. 

“  He  will  be  a  ’cute  man  yet,”  resumed  the  lock¬ 
smith.  “  Take  care,  when  we  are  growing  old  and 
foolish,  Barnaby  doesn’t  put  us  to  the  blush,  that’s 
all.  But  our  other  friend,”  he  added,  looking  under 
the  table  and  about  the  floor — “  sharpest  and  cun- 
ningest  of  all  the  sharp  and  cunning  ones — where’s 
he  ?” 

“  In  Barnaby’s  room,”  rejoined  the  widow,  with  a 
faint  smile. 

“Ah !  He’s  a  knowing  blade !”  said  Varden,  shak¬ 
ing  his  head.  “  I  should  be  sorry  to  talk  secrets 
before  him.  Oh!  He’s  a  deep  customer.  I’ve  no 
doubt  he  can  read,  and  write,  and  cast  accounts  if 
he  chooses.  What  was  that?  Him  tapping  at  the 
door  ?” 

“  No,”  returned  the  widow.  “  It  was  in  the  street, 
I  think.  Hark !  Yes.  There  again !  ’Tis  some 
one  knocking  softly  at  the  shutter.  Who  can  it 
be !” 

They  had  been  speaking  in  a  low  tone,  for  the  in¬ 


valid  lay  overhead,  and  the  walls  and  ceilings  being 
thin  and  poorly  built,  the  sound  of  their  voices  might 
otherwise  have  disturbed  his  slumber.  The  party 
without,  whoever  it  was,  could  have  stood  close  to 
the  shutter  without  hearing  any  thing  spoken ;  and, 
seeing  the  light  through  the  chinks  and  finding  al¬ 
so  quiet,  might  have  been  persuaded  that  only  one 
person  was  there. 

“  Some  thief  or  ruffian  maybe,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith.  “  Give  me  the  light.” 

“  No,  no,”  she  returned,  hastily.  “  Such  visitors 
have  never  come  to  this  poor  dwelling.  Do  you 
stay  here.  You’re  within  call,  at  the  worst.  1 
would  rather  go  myself — alone.” 

“Why?”  said  the  lock-smith,  unwillingly  relin¬ 
quishing  the  candle  he  had  caught  up  from  the 
table. 

“Because — I  don’t  know  why — because  the  wish 
is  so  strong  upon  me,”  she  rejoined.  “There  again 
— do  not  detain  me,  I  beg  of  you!” 

Gabriel  looked  at  her,  in  great  surprise  to  see  one 
who  was  usually  so  mild  and  quiet,  thus  agitated, 
and  with  so  little  cause.  She  left  the  room  and 
closed  the  door  behind  her.  She  stood  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  as  if  hesitating,  with  her  hand  upon  the  lock. 
In  this  short  interval  the  knocking  came  again,  and 
a  voice  close  to  the  window — a  voice  the  lock-smith 
seemed  to  recollect,  and  to  have  some  disagreeable 
association  with — whispered  “  Make  haste.” 

The  words  were  uttered  in  that  low  distinct  voice 
which  finds  its  way  so  readily  to  sleepers’  ears,  and 
wakes  them  in  a  fright.  For  a  moment  it  startled 
even  the  lock-smith ;  rvho  involuntarily  drew  back 
from  the  window,  and  listened. 

The  wind  rumbling  in  the  chimney  made  it  diffi¬ 
cult  to  hear  what  passed,  but  he  could  tell  that  the 
door  was  opened,  that  there  was  the  tread  of  a  man 
upon  the  creaking  boards,  and  then  a  moment’s  si¬ 
lence — broken  by  a  suppressed  something  which  was 
not  a  shriek,  or  groan,  or  cry  for  help,  and  yet  might 
have  been  either  or  all  three ;  and  the  words  “  My 
God !”  uttered  in  a  voice  it  chilled  him  to  hear. 

He  rushed  out  upon  the  instant.  There,  at  last, 
was  that  dreadful  look — the  very  one  he  seemed  to 
know  so  well  and  yet  had  never  seen  before — upon 
her  face.  There  she  stood,  frozen  to  the  ground, 
gazing  with  starting  eyes,  and  livid  cheeks,  and  ev¬ 
ery  feature  fixed  and  ghastly,  upon  the  man  he  had 
encountered  in  the  dark  last  night.  His  eyes  met 
those  of  the  lock-smith.  It  was  but  a  flash,  an  in¬ 
stant,  a  breath  upon  the  polished  glass,  and  he  was 
gone. 

The  lock-smith  was  upon  him — had  the  skirts  of 
his  streaming  garment  almost  in  his  grasp — when 
his  arms  were  tightly  clutched,  and  the  widow  flung 
herself  upon  the  ground  before  him. 

“  The  other  way — the  other  way,”  she  cried.  “  He 
went  the  other  way.  Turn — turn !” 

“The  other  way!  I  see  him  now,”  rejoined  the 
lock-smith,  pointing — “  yonder — there — there  is  his 
shadow  passing  by  that  light.  What — who  is  this  ? 
Let  me  go.” 

“  Come  back,  come  back !”  exclaimed  the  woman, 
clasping  him;  “do  not  touch  him  on  your  life.  I 
charge  you,  come  back.  He  carries  other  lives  be¬ 
sides  his  own.  Come  back !” 


WHO  IS  IT? 


25 


“  What  does  this  mean  ?”  cried  the  lock-smith. 

“  No  matter  what  it  means,  don’t  ask,  don’t  speak, 
don’t  think  about  it.  He  is  not  to  be  followed, 
checked,  or  stopped.  Come  back !” 

The  old  man  looked  at  her  in  wonder,  as  she 
writhed  and  clung  about  him ;  and,  borne  down  by 
her  passion,  suffered  her  to  drag  him  into  the  house. 
It  was  not  until  she  had  chained  and  double-locked 
the  door,  fastened  every  bolt  and  bar  with  the  heat 
and  fury  of  a  maniac,  and  drawn  him  back  into  the 
room,  that  she  turned  upon  him,  once  again,  that 
stony  look  of  horror,  and,  sinking  down  into  a  chair, 
covered  her  face,  and  shuddered,  as  though  the  hand 
of  death  were  on  her. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

BEYOND  all  measure  astonished  by  the  strange 
occurrences  which  had  passed  with  so  much  vi¬ 
olence  and  rapidity,  the  lock-smith  gazed  upon  the 
shuddering  figure  in  the  chair  like  one  half  stupe¬ 
fied,  and  would  have  gazed  much  longer,  had  not 
his  tongue  been  loosened  by  compassion  and  hu¬ 
manity. 

“  You  are  ill,”  said  Gabriel.  “  Let  me  call  some 
neighbor  in.” 

“Not  for  the  world,”  she  rejoined,  motioning  to 
him  with  her  trembling  hand,  and  holding  her  face 
averted.  “It  is  enough  that  you  have  been  by,  to 
see  this.” 

“Nay,  more  than  enough — or  less,”  said  Gabriel. 
“Be  it  so,”  she  returned.  “As  you  like.  Ask  me 
no  questions,  I  entreat  you.” 

“  Neighbor,”  said  the  lock -smith,  after  a  pause. 
“Is  this  fair,  or  reasonable,  or  just  to  yourself?  Is 
it  like  you,  who  have  known  me  so  long  and  sought 
my  advice  in  all  matters — like  you,  who  from  a  girl 
have  had  a  strong  mind  and  a  staunch  heart  ?” 

“  I  have  need  of  them,”  she  replied.  “  I  am  grow¬ 
ing  old,  both  in  years  and  care.  Perhaps  that,  and 
too  much  trial,  have  made  them  weaker  than  they 
used  to  be.  Do  not  speak  to  me.” 

“How  can  I  see  what  I  have  seen,  and  hold  my 
peace!”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “Who  was  that 
man,  and  why  has  his  coming  made  this  change  in 
you  ?” 

She  was  silent,  but  held  to  the  chair  as  though  to 
save  herself  from  falling  on  the  ground. 

“  I  take  the  license  of  an  old  acquaintance,  Mary,” 
said  the  lock-smith,  “who  has  ever  had  a  warm  re¬ 
gard  for  yon,  and  maybe  has  tried  to  prove  it  when 
he  could.  Who  is  this  ill-favored  man,  and  what 
has  he  to  do  with  you  ?  Who  is  this  ghost,  that  is 
only  seen  in  the  black  nights  and  bad  weather? 
How  does  he  know,  and  why  does  he  haunt,  this 
house,  whispering  through  chinks  and  crevices,  as 
if  there  was  that  between  him  and  you,  which  nei¬ 
ther  durst  so  much  as  speak  aloud  of.  Who  is  he  ?” 

“You  do  well  to  say  he  haunts  this  house,”  re¬ 
turned  the  widow,  faintly.  “  His  shadow  has  been 
upon  it  and  me,  in  light  and  darkness,  at  noonday 
and  midnight.  And  now,  at  last,  he  has  come  in 
the  body!” 

“  But  he  wouldn’t  have  gone  in  the  body,”  re¬ 


turned  the  lock-smith,  with  some  irritation,  “if  you 
had  left  my  arms  and  legs  at  liberty.  What  riddle 
is  it?” 

“  It  is  one,”  she  answered,  rising,  as  she  spoke, 
“  that  must  remain  forever  as  it  is.  I  dare  not  say 
more  than  that.” 

“  Dare  not !”  repeated  the  wondering  lock-smith. 

“  Do  not  press  me,”  she  replied.  “  I  am  sick  and 
faint,  and  every  faculty  of  life  seems  dead  within 
me. — No ! — Do  not  touch  me,  either.” 

Gabriel,  who  had  stepped  forward  to  render  her 
assistance,  fell  back  as  she  made  this  hasty  excla¬ 
mation,  and  regarded  her  in  silent  wonder. 

“Let  me  go  my  way  alone,”  she  said  in  a  low 
voice,  “  and  let  the  hands  of  no  honest  man  touch 
mine  to-night.”  When  she  had  tottered  to  the  door, 
she  turned,  and  added  with  a  stronger  effort,  “  This 
is  a  secret,  which,  of  necessity,  I  trust  to  you.  You 
are  a  true  man.  As  you  have  ever  been  good  and 
kind  to  me — keep  it.  If  any  noise  was  heard  above, 
make  some  excuse— say  any  thing  but  what  you 
really  saw,  and  never  let  a  word  or  look  between 
us  recall  this  circumstance.  I  trust  to  you.  Mind, 
I  trust  to  you.  How  much  I  trust,  you  never  can 
conceive.” 

Casting  her  eyes  upon  him  for  an  instant,  she 
withdrew,  and  left  him  there  alone. 

Gabriel,  not  knowing  what  to  think,  stood  staring 
at  the  door  with  a  countenance  full  of  surprise  and 
dismay.  The  more  he  pondered  on  what  had  passed, 
the  less  able  he  was  to  give  it  any  favorable  inter¬ 
pretation.  To  find  this  widow  woman,  whose  life 
for  so  many  years  had  been  supposed  to  be  one  of 
solitude  and  retirement,  and  who,  in  her  quiet  suf¬ 
fering  character,  had  gained  the  good  opinion  and 
respect  of  all  who  knew  her  —  to  find  her  linked 
mysteriously  with  an  ill-omened  man,  alarmed  at 
his  appearance,  and  yet  favoring  his  escape,  was  a 
discovery  that  pained  as  much  as  startled  him.  Her 
reliance  on  his  secrecy,  and  his  tacit  acquiescence, 
increased  his  distress  of  mind.  If  he  had  spoken 
boldly,  persisted  in  questioning  her,  detained  her 
when  she  rose  to  leave  the  room,  made  any  kind  of 
protest,  instead  of  silently  compromising  himself,  as 
he  felt  he  had  done,  he  would  have  been  more  at 
ease. 

“Why  did  I  let  her  say  it  was  a  secret,  and  she 
trusted  it  to  me  ?”  said  Gabriel,  putting  his  wig  on 
one  side  to  scratch  his  head  with  greater  ease,  and 
looking  ruefully  at  the  fire.  “  I  have  no  more  read¬ 
iness  than  old  John  himself.  Why  didn’t  I  say  firm¬ 
ly,  ‘  You  have  no  right  to  such  secrets,  and  I  demand 
of  you  to  tell  me  what  this  means,’  instead  of  stand¬ 
ing  gaping  at  her,  like  an  old  moon-calf  as  I  am ! 
But  there’s  my  weakness.  I  can  be  obstinate  enough 
with  men  if  need  be,  but  women  may  twist  me  round 
their  fingers  at  their  pleasure.” 

He  took  his  wig  off  outright  as  he  made  this  re¬ 
flection,  and,  warming  his  handkerchief  at  the  fire, 
began  to  rub  and  polish  his  bald  head  with  it  until 
it  glistened  again. 

“And  yet,”  said  the  lock-smith,  softening  under 
this  soothing  process,  and  stopping  to  smile,  “it  may 
be  nothing.  Any  drunken  brawler  trying  to  make 
his  way  into  the  house  would  have  alarmed  a  quiet 
soul  like  her.  But  then  ” — and  here  was  the  vexa- 


26 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


tion — “  how  came  it  to  be  that  man ;  how  comes  he 
to  have  this  influence  over  her;  how  came  she  to  fa¬ 
vor  his  getting  away  from  me ;  and,  more  than  all, 
how  came  she  not  to  say  it  was  a  sudden  fright,  and 
nothing  more  ?  It’s  a  sad  thing  to  have,  in  one  min¬ 
ute,  reason  to  mistrust  a  person  I  have  known  so 
long,  and  an  old  sweetheart  into  the  bargain ;  but 
what  else  can  I  do,  with  all  this  upon  my  mind ! — Is 
that  Barnaby  outside  there  ?” 

“Ay!”  he  cried,  looking  in  and  nodding.  “Sure 
enough  it’s  Barnaby — how  did  you  guess  ?” 

“  By  your  shadow,”  said  the  lock-smith. 

“  Oho!”  cried  Barnaby,  glancing  over  his  shoulder. 
“  He’s  a  merry  fellow,  that  shadow,  and  keeps  close 
to  me,  though  I  am  silly.  We  have  such  pranks, 
such  walks,  such  runs,  such  gambols  on  the  grass ! 
Sometimes  he’ll  be  half  as  tall  as  a  church-steeple, 
and  sometimes  no  bigger  than  a  dwarf.  Now  he 
goes  on  before,  and  now  behind,  and  anon  he’ll  be 
stealing  on,  on  this  side,  or  on  that,  stopping  when¬ 
ever  I  stop,  and  thinking  I  can’t  see  him,  though  I 
have  my  eye  on  him  sharp  enough.  Oh!  he’s  a 
merry  fellow.  Tell  me — is  he  silly  too!  I  think 
he  is.” 

“  Why  ?”  asked  Gabriel. 

“Because  he  never  tires  of  mocking  me,  but  does 
it  all  day  long. — Why  don’t  you  come  ?” 

“Where?” 

“Up  stairs.  He  wants  you.  Stay — where’s  Ms 
shadow  ?  Come.  You’re  a  wise  man ;  tell  me  that.” 

“  Beside  him,  Barnaby ;  beside  him,  I  suppose,” 
returned  the  lock-smith. 

“No!”  he  replied,  shaking  his  head.  “Guess 
again.” 

“  Gone  out  a- walking,  maybe  ?” 

“  He  has  changed  shadows  with  a  woman,”  the 
idiot  whispered  in  his  ear,  and  then  fell  back  with 
a  look  of  triumph.  “Her  shadow’s  always  with 
him,  and  his  with  her.  That’s  sport  I  think,  eh  ?” 

“  Barnaby,”  said  the  lock-smith,  with  a  grave  look ; 
“  come  hither,  lad.” 

“  I  know  what  you  want  to  say.  I  know !”  he  re¬ 
plied,  keeping  away  from  him.  “  But  I’m  cunning, 
I’m  silent.  I  only  say  so  much  to  you  —  are  you 
ready?”  As  he  spoke,  he  caught  up  the  light,  and 
waved  it  with  a  wild  laugh  above  his  head. 

“Softly — gently,”  said  the  lock-smith,  exerting 
all  his  influence  to  keep  him  calm  and  quiet.  “  I 
thought  you  had  been  asleep.” 

“  So  I  have  been  asleep,”  he  rejoined,  with  widely- 
opened  eyes.  “  There  have  been  great  faces  coming 
and  going — close  to  my  face,  and  then  a  mile  away 
— low  places  to  creep  through,  whether  I  would  or 
no — high  churches  to  fall  down  from — strange  crea¬ 
tures  crowded  up  together  neck  and  heels,  to  sit 
upon  the  bed — that’s  sleep,  eh  ?” 

“  Dreams,  Barnaby,  dreams,”  said  the  lock-smith. 

“Dreams!”  he  echoed  softly,  drawing  closer  to 
him.  “  Those  are  not  dreams.” 

“  What  are,”  replied  the  lock-smith,  “  if  they  are 
not  ?” 

“I  dreamed,”  said  Barnaby,  passing  his  arrti 
through  Varden’s,  and  peering  close  into  his  face 
as  he  answered  in  a  whisper,  “I  dreamed  just  now 
that  something — it  was  in  the  shape  of  a  man — fol¬ 
lowed  me — came  softly  after  me — wouldn’t  let  me 


be — but  was  always  hiding  and  crouching,  like  a 
cat  in  dark  corners,  waiting  till  I  should  pass ;  when 
it  crept  out  and  came  softly  after  me. — Did  you  ever 
see  me  run  ?” 

“  Many  a  time,  you  know.” 

“You  never  saw  me  run  as  I  did  in  this  dream. 
Still  it  came  creeping  on  to  worry  me.  Nearer, 
nearer,  nearer — I  ran  faster — leaped — sprang  out  of 
bed,  and  to  the  window — and  there,  in  the  street  be¬ 
low— but  he  is  waiting  for  us.  Are  you  coming  ?” 

“What  in  the  street  below,  Barnaby?”  said  Var¬ 
den,  imagining  that  he  traced  some  connection  be¬ 
tween  this  vision  and  what  had  actually  occurred. 

Barnaby  looked  into  his  face,  muttered  incoher¬ 
ently,  waved  the  light  above  his  head  again,  laugh¬ 
ed,  and  drawing  the  lock-smith’s  arm  more  tightly 
through  his  own,  led  him  up  the  stairs  in  silence. 

They  entered  a  homely  bed-chamber,  garnished  in 
a  scanty  way  with  chairs,  whose  spindle-shanks  be¬ 
spoke  their  age,  and  other  furniture  of  very  little 
worth ;  but  clean  and  neatly  kept.  Reclining  in  an 
easy-chair  before  the  fire,  pale  and  weak  from  waste 
of  blood,  was  Edward  Chester,  the  young  gentle¬ 
man  who  had  been  the  first  to  quit  the  Maypole  on 
the  previous  night,  and  who,  extending  his  hand  to 
the  lock-smith,  welcomed  him  as  his  preserver  and 
friend. 

“  Say  no  more,  sir,  say  no  more,”  said  Gabriel.  “  I 
hope  I  would  have  done  at  least  as  much  for  any 
man  in  such  a  strait,  and  most  of  all  for  you,  sir.  A 
certain  young  lady,”  he  added,  with  some  hesitation, 
“lias  done  us  many  a  kind  turn,  and  we  naturally 
feel — I  hope  I  give  you  no  offense  in  saying  this,  sir  ?” 

The  young  man  smiled  and  shook  his  head ;  at  the 
same  time  moving  in  his  chair  as  if  in  pain. 

“  It’s  no  great  matter,”  he  said,  in  answer  to  the 
lock-smith’s  sympathizing  look,  “  a  mere  uneasiness 
arising  at  least  as  much  from  being  cooped  up  here, 
as  from  the  slight  wound  I  have,  or  from  the  loss  of 
blood.  Be  seated,  Mr.  Varden.” 

“  If  I  may  make  so  bold,  Mr.  Edward,  as  to  lean 
upon  your  chair,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  accom¬ 
modating  his  action  to  his  speech,  and  bending  over 
him,  “  I’ll  stand  here  for  the  convenience  of  speaking 
low.  Barnaby  is  not  in  his  quietest  humor  to-night, 
and  at  such  times  talking  never  does  him  good.” 

“  They  both  glanced  at  the  subject  of  this  remark, 
who  had  taken  a  seat  on  the  other  side  of  the  fire, 
and,  smiling  vacantly,  was  making  puzzles  on  his 
fingers  with  a  skein  of  string. 

“  Pray,  tell  me,  sir,”  said  Varden,  dropping  his  voice 
still  lower,  “exactly  what  happened  last  night.  I 
have  my  reason  for  inquiring.  You  left  the  May- 
pole,  alone  ?” 

“And  walked  homeward  alone,  until  I  had  nearly 
reached  the  place  where  you  found  me,  when  I  heard 
the  gallop  of  a  horse.” 

“  Behind  you  ?”  said  the  lock-smith. 

“  Indeed,  yes — behiud  me.  It  was  a  single  rider, 
who  soon  overtook  me,  and,  checking  his  horse,  in¬ 
quired  the  way  to  Loudon.” 

“  You  were  on  the  alert,  sir,  knowing  how  many 
highwaymen  there  are  scouring  the  roads  in  all  di¬ 
rections,”  said  Varden. 

“  I  was,  but  I  had  only  a  stick,  having  imprudent¬ 
ly  left  my  pistols  in  their  holster-case  with  the  land- 


HOW  IT  HAPPENED. 


27 


lord’s  son.  I  directed  liim  as  he  desired.  Before 
the  words  had  passed  my  lips,  he  rode  upon  me  furi¬ 
ously,  as  if  bent  on  trampling  me  down  beneath  his 
horse’s  hoofs.  In  starting  aside,  I  slipped  and  fell. 
You  found  me  with  this  stab  and  an  ugly  bruise  or 
two,  and  without  my  purse — in  which  he  found  lit¬ 
tle  enough  for  his  pains.  And  now,  Mr.  Varden,”  he 
added,  shaking  the  lock-smith  by  the  hand,  “  saving 
the  extent  of  my  gratitude  to  you,  you  know  as 
much  as  I.” 

“  Except,”  said  Gabriel,  bending  down  yet  more, 
and  looking  cautiously  toward  their  silent  neighbor, 
“except  in  respect  of  the  robber  himself.  What 
like  was  he,  sir  ?  Speak  low,  if  you  please.  Barna- 
by  means  no  harm,  but  I  have  watched  him  oftener 
than  you,  and  I  know,  little  as  you  would  think  it, 
that  he’s  listening  now.” 

It  required  a  strong  confidence  in  the  lock-smith’s 
veracity  to  lead  any  one  to  this  belief;  for  every 
sense  and  faculty  that  Barnaby  possessed  seemed  to 
be  fixed  upon  his  game,  to  the  exclusion  of  all  other 
things.  Something  in  the  young  man’s  face  express¬ 
ed  this  opinion,  for  Gabriel  repeated  what  he  had 
just  said,  more  earnestly  than  before,  and,  with  an¬ 
other  glance  toward  Barnaby,  again  asked  what  like 
the  man  was. 

“  The  night  was  so  dark,”  said  Edward,  “  the  at¬ 
tack  so  sudden,  and  he  so  wrapped  and  muffled  up, 
that  I  can  hardly  say.  It  seems  that — ” 

“  Don’t  mention  his  name,  sir,”  returned  the  lock¬ 
smith,  following  his  look  toward  Barnaby ;  “  I  know 
he  saw  him.  I  want  to  know  what  you  saw.” 

“All  I  remember  is,”  said  Edward,  “that  as  he 
checked  his  horse  his  hat  was  blown  off.  He  caught 
it,  and  replaced  it  on  his  head,  which  I  observed  was 
bound  with  a  dark  handkerchief.  A  stranger  enter¬ 
ed  the  Maypole  while  I  was  there,  whom  I  had  not 
seen — for  I  had  sat  apart  for  reasons  of  my  own — 
and  when  I  rose  to  leave  the  room  and  glanced 
round,  he  was  in  the  shadow  of  the  chimney  and 
hidden  from  my  sight.  But  if  he  and  the  robber 
wrere  two  different  persons,  their  voices  were  strange¬ 
ly  and  most  remarkably  alike ;  for  directly  the  man 
addressed  me  in  the  road,  I  recognized  his  speech 
again.” 

“It  is  as  I  feared.  The  very  man  was  here  to¬ 
night,”  thought  the  lock  -  smith,  changing  color. 
“  What  dark  history  is  this  ?” 

“  Halloo !”  cried  a  hoarse  voice  in  his  ear.  “  Hal¬ 
loo,  halloo,  halloo!  Bow  wow  wow.  What’s  the 
matter  here !  Hal-loo !” 

The  speaker — who  made  the  lock-smith  start  as 
if  he  had  seen  some  supernatural  agent — was  a  large 
raven,  who  had  perched  upon  the  top  of  the  easy- 
chair,  unseen  by  him  and  Edward,  and  listened  with 
a  polite  attention  and  a  most  extraordinary  appear¬ 
ance  of  comprehending  every  word,  to  all  they  had 
said  up  to  this  point ;  turning  his  head  from  one  to 
the  other,  as  if  his  office  were  to  judge  between  them, 
and  it  were  of  the  very  last  importance  that  he 
should  not  lose  a  word. 

“Look  at  him!”  said  Varden,  divided  between  ad¬ 
miration  of  the  bird  and  a  kind  of  fear  of  him. 
“  Was  there  ever  such  a  knowing  imp  as  that !  Oh, 
he’s  a  dreadful  fellow !” 

The  raven,  with  his  head  very  much  on  one  side, 


and  his  bright  eye  shining  like  a  diamond,  preserved 
a  thoughtful  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  and  then  re¬ 
plied,  in  a  voice  so  hoarse  and  distant,  that  it  seem¬ 
ed  to  come  through  his  thick  feathers  rather  than 
out  of  his  mouth. 

“  Halloo,  halloo,  halloo !  What’s  the  matter  here ! 
Keep  up  your  spirits.  Never  say  die.  Bow  wow 
wow.  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil.  Hur¬ 
ra  !” — And  then,  as  if  exulting  in  his  infernal  char¬ 
acter,  he  began  to  whistle. 

“I  more  than  half  believe  he  speaks  the  truth. 
Upon  my  word  I  do,”  said  Varden.  “Do  you  see 
how  he  looks  at  me,  as  if  he  knew  what  I  was  say¬ 
ing  ?” 

To  which  the  bird,  balancing  himself  on  tiptoe, 
as  it  were,  and  moving  his  body  up  and  down  in  a 
sort  of  grave  dance,  rejoined,  “  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a 
devil,  I’m  a  devil,”  and  flapped  his  wings  against 
his  sides  as  if  he  were  bursting  with  laughter.  Bar¬ 
naby  clapped  his  hands,  and  fairly  rolled  upon  the 
ground  in  an  ecstasy  of  delight. 

“Strange  companions,  sir,”  said  the  lock -smith, 
shaking  his  head,  and  looking  from  one  to  the  other. 
“The  bird  has  all  the  wit.” 

“Strange  indeed!”  said  Edward,  holding  out  his 
forefinger  to  the  raven,  who,  in  acknowledgment  of 
the  attention,  made  a  dive  at  it  immediately  with 
his  iron  bill.  “  Is  he  old  ?” 

“A  mere  boy,  sir,”  replied  the  lock-smith.  “A 
hundred  and  twenty,  or  thereabouts.  Call  him  down, 
Barnaby,  my  man.” 

“  Call  him !”  echoed  Barnaby,  sitting  upright  upon 
the  floor,  and  staring  vacantly  at  Gabriel,  as  he 
thrust  his  hair  back  from  his  face.  “  But  who  can 
make  him  come !  He  calls  me,  and  makes  me  go 
where  he  will.  He  goes  on  before,  and  I  follow. 
He’s  the  master,  and  I’m  the  man.  Is  that  the 
truth,  Grip  ?” 

The  raven  gave  a  short,  comfortable,  confidential 
kind  of  croak ;  a  most  expressive  croak,  which  seem¬ 
ed  to  say,  “You  needn’t  let  these  fellows  into  our 
secrets.  We  understand  each  other.  It’s  all  right.” 

“/  make  him  come?”  cried  Barnaby,  pointing  to 
the  bird.  “  Him,  who  never  goes  to  sleep,  or  so 
much  as  winks ! — Why,  any  time  of  night,  you  may 
see  his  eyes  in  my  dark  room,  shining  like  two 
sparks.  And  every  night,  and  all  night  too,  he’s 
broad  awake,  talking  to  himself,  thinking  what  he 
shall  do  to-morrow,  where  we  shall  go,  and  what  he 
shall  steal,  and  hide,  and  bury.  I  make  Mm  come ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

On  second  thoughts,  the  bird  appeared  disposed 
to  come  of  himself.  After  a  short  survey  of  the 
ground,  and  a  few  sidelong  looks  at  the  ceiling  and 
at  every  body  present  in  turn,  he  fluttered  to  the 
floor,  and  went  to  Barnaby — not  in  a  hop,  or  walk, 
or  run,  but  in  a  pace  like  that  of  a  very  particular 
gentleman  with  exceedingly  tight  boots  on,  trying 
to  walk  fast  over  loose  pebbles.  Then,  stepping  into 
his  extended  hand,  and  condescending  to  be  held 
out  at  arms-length,  he  gave  vent  to  a  succession  of 
sounds,  not  unlike  the  drawing  of  some  eight  or  ten 
dozen  of  long  corks,  and  again  asserted  his  brim¬ 
stone  birth  and  parentage  with  great  distinctness. 

The  lock-smith  shook  his  head — perhaps  in  some 
doubt  of  the  creature’s  being  really  nothing  but  a 


28 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


"bird — perhaps  in  pity  for  Barnaby,  who  by  this  time 
had  him  in  his  arms,  and  was  rolling  about,  with 
him,  on  the  ground.  As  he  raised  his  eyes  from 
the  poor  fellow  he  encountered  those  of  his  mother, 
who  had  entered  the  room,  and  was  looking  on  in  si¬ 
lence. 

She  was  quite  white  in  the  face,  even  to  her  lips, 
but  had  wholly  subdued  her  emotion,  and  wore  her 
usual  quiet  look.  Varden  fancied  as  he  glanced  at 
her  that  she  shrunk  from  his  eye ;  and  that  she  bus¬ 
ied  herself  about  the  wounded  gentleman  to  avoid 
him  the  better. 

It  was  time  he  went  to  bed,  she  said.  He  was  to 
he  removed  to  his  own  home  on  the  morrow,  and  he 
had  already  exceeded  his  time  for  sitting  up,  by  a 
full  hour.  Acting  on  this  hint,  the  lock-smith  pre¬ 
pared  to  take  his  leave. 

“  By-tlie-bye,”  said  Edward,  as  he  shook  him  by 
the  hand,  and  looked  from  him  to  Mrs.  Rudge  and 
back#again,  “  what  noise  was  that  below  ?  I  heard 
your  voice  in  the  midst  of  it,  and  should  have  in¬ 
quired  before,  hut  our  other  conversation  drove  it 
from  my  memory.  What  was  it  ?” 

The  lock-smith  looked  toward  her,  and  hit  his  lip. 
She  leaned  against  the  chair,  and  bent  her  eyes  upon 
the  ground.  Barnahy  too — he  was  listening. 

— “  Some  mad  or  drunken  fellow,  sir,”  Yarden  at 
length  made  answer,  looking  steadily  at  the  wTidow 
as  he  spoke.  “  He  mistook  the  house,  and  tried  to 
force  an  entrance.” 

She  breathed  more  freely,  hut  stood  quite  motion¬ 
less.  As  the  lock-smith  said  “  Good-night,”  and  Bar¬ 
nahy  caught  up  the  candle  to  light  him  down  the 
stairs,  she  took  it  from  him,  and  charged  him — with 
more  haste  and  earnestness  than  so  slight  an  occa¬ 
sion  appeared  to  warrant — not  to  stir.  The  raven 
followed  them  to  satisfy  himself  that  all  was  right 
below,  and  when  they  reached  the  street  door,  stood 
on  the  bottom  stair  drawing  corks  out  of  number. 

With  a  trembling  hand  she  unfastened  the  chain 
and  bolts,  and  turned  the  key.  As  she  had  her  hand 
upon  the  latch,  the  lock-smith  said,  in  a  low  voice, 

“ 1  have  told  a  lie  to-night,  for  your  sake,  Mary, 
and  for  the  sake  of  by-gone  times  and  old  acquaint¬ 
ance,  when  I  would  scorn  to  do  so  for  my  own.  I 
hope  I  may  have  done  no  harm,  or  led  to  none.  I 
can’t  help  the  suspicions  you  have  forced  upon  me, 
and  I  am  loath,  I  tell  you  plainly,  to  leave  Mr.  Ed¬ 
ward  here.  Take  care  he  comes  to  no  hurt.  I 
doubt  the  safety  of  this  roof,  and  am  glad  he  leaves 
it  so  soon.  Now,  let  me  go.” 

For  a  moment  she  hid  her  face  in  her  hands  and 
wept;  but  resisting  the  strong  impulse  which  evi¬ 
dently  moved  her  to  reply,  opened  the  door — no 
wider  than  was  sufficient  for  the  passage  of  his 
body — and  motioned  him  away.  As  the  lock-smith 
stood  upon  the  step,  it  was  chained  and  locked  be¬ 
hind  him,  and  the  raven,  in  furtherance  of  these  pre¬ 
cautions,  barked  like  a  lusty  house-dog. 

“In  league  with  that  ill-looking  figure  that  might 
have  fallen  from  a  gibbet — he  listening  and  hiding 
here — Barnaby  first  upon  the  spot  last  night — can 
she  who  has  always  borne  so  fair  a  name  be  guilty 
of  such  crimes  in  secret !”  said  the  lock-smith,  mus¬ 
ing.  “  Heaven  forgive  me  if  I  am  wrong,  and  send 
me  just  thoughts;  but  she  is  poor,  the  temptation 


may  be  great,  and  we  daily  hear  of  things  as  strange. 
— Ay,  bark  away,  my  friend.  If  there’s  any  wick¬ 
edness  going  on,  that  raven’s  in  it,  I’ll  be  sworn.” 


CHAPTER  VII. 

MRS.  YARDEN  was  a  lady  of  what  is  commonly 
called  an  uncertain  temper — a  phrase  which 
being  interpreted  signifies  a  temper  tolerably  certain 
to  make  every  body  more  or  less  uncomfortable. 
Thus  it  generally  happened  that,  when  other  people 
were  merry,  Mrs.  Yarden  was  dull;  and  that  when 
other  people  were  dull,  Mrs.  Yarden  was  disposed  to 
be  amazingly  cheerful.  Indeed  the  worthy  house¬ 
wife  was  of  such  a  capricious  nature,  that  she  not 
only  attained  a  higher  pitch  of  genius  than  Mac¬ 
beth,  in  respect  of  her  ability  to  be  wise,  amazed, 
temperate  and  furious,  loyal  and  neutral  in  an  in¬ 
stant,  but  would  sometimes  ring  the  changes  back¬ 
ward  and  forward  on  all  possible  moods  and  flights 
in  one  short  quarter  of  an  hour;  performing,  as  it 
were,  a  kind  of  triple  bob  major  on  the  peal  of  in¬ 
struments  in  the  female  belfry,  with  a  skillfulness 
and  rapidity  of  execution  that  astonished  all  who 
heard  her. 

It  had  been  observed  in  this  good  lady  (who  did 
not  want  for  personal  attractions,  being  plump  and 
buxom  to  look  at,  though,  like  her  fair  daughter, 
somewhat  short  in  stature)  that  this  uncertainty 
of  disposition  strengthened  and  increased  with  her 
temporal  prosperity ;  and  divers  wise  men  and  ma¬ 
trons,  on  friendly  terms  with  the  lock-smith  and  his 
family,  even  went  so  far  as  to  assert,  that  a  tumble 
down  some  half-dozen  rounds  in  the  world’s  ladder 
— such  as  the  breaking  of  the  bank  in  which  her 
husband  kept  his  money,  or  some  little  fall  of  that 
kind — would  be  the  making  of  her,  and  could  hard¬ 
ly  fail  to  render  her  one  of  the  most  agreeable  com¬ 
panions  in  existence.  Whether  they  were  right  or 
wTrong  in  this  conjecture,  certain  it  is  that  minds, 
like  bodies,  will  often  fall  into  a  pimpled  ill-condi¬ 
tioned  state  from  mere  excess  of  comfort,  and  like 
them,  are  often  successfully  cured  by  remedies  in 
themselves  very  nauseous  and  unpalatable. 

Mrs.  Varden’s  chief  aider  and  abettor,  and  at  the 
same  time  her  principal  victim  and  object  of  wrath, 
was  her  single  domestic  servant,  one  Miss  Miggs ;  or 
as  she  was  called,  in  conformity  with  those  preju¬ 
dices  of  society  which  lop  and  top  from  poor  hand¬ 
maidens  all  such  genteel  excrescences — Miggs.  This 
Miggs  was  a  tall  young  lady,  very  much  addicted  to 
pattens  in  private  life ;  slender  and  shrewish,  of  a 
rather  uncomfortable  figure,  and  though  not  abso¬ 
lutely  ill-looking,  of  a  sharp  and  acid  visage.  As  a 
general  principle  and  abstract  proposition,  Miggs 
held  the  male  sex  to  be  utterly  contemptible  and 
unworthy  of  notice ;  to  be  fickle,  false,  base,  sottish, 
inclined  to  perjury,  and  wholly  undeserving.  When 
particularly  exasperated  against  them  (which,  scan¬ 
dal  said,  was  when  Sim  Tappertit  slighted  her  most) 
she  was  accustomed  to  wish  with  great  emphasis 
that  the  whole  race  of  women  could  but  die  off)  in 
order  that  the  men  might  be  brought  to  know  the 
real  value  of  the  blessings  by  which  they  set  so  lit- 


MRS.  V ARDEN  THINKS  SHE  IS  ILL  TREATED. 


29 


tie  store ;  nay,  lier  feeling  for  her  order  ran  so  high, 
that  she  sometimes  declared,  if  she  could  only  have 
good  security  for  a  fair,  round  number — say  ten 
thousand — of  young  virgins  following  her  example, 
sIiq  would,  to  spite  mankind,  hang,  drown,  stab,  or 
poison  herself,  with  a  joy  past  all  expression. 

It  was  the  voice  of  Miggs  that  greeted  the  lock¬ 
smith,  when  he  knocked  at  his  own  house,  with  a 
shrill  cry  of  “  Who’s  there  ?” 

“  Me,  girl,  me,”  returned  Gabriel. 

“  What,  already,  sir !”  said  Miggs,  opening  the  door 
with  a  look  of  surprise.  “We  were  just  getting  on 
our  night-caps  to  sit  up — me  and  mistress.  Oh,  she 
has  been  so  -bad !” 

Miggs  said  this  with  an  air  of  uncommon  candor 
and  concern  ;  but  the  parlor  door  was  standing  open, 
and  as  Gabriel  very  well  knew  for  whose  ears  it  was 
designed,  he  regarded  her  with  any  thing  but  an  ap¬ 
proving  look  as  he  passed  in. 

“  Master’s  come  home,  mim,”  cried  Miggs,  running 
before  him  into  the  parlor.  “  You  was  wrong,  mim, 
and  I  was  right.  I  thought  he  wouldn’t  keep  us  up 
so  late  two  nights  running,  mim.  Master’s  always 
considerate  so  far.  I’m  so  glad,  mim,  on  your  ac¬ 
count.  I’m  a  little  ” — here  Miggs  simpered — “  a  lit¬ 
tle  sleepy  myself;  I’ll  own  it  now,  mim,  though  I 
said  I  wasn’t  when  you  asked  me.  It  an’t  of  no 
consequence,  mim,  of  course.”  . 

“  You  had  better,”  said  the  lock-smith,  who  most 
devoutly  wished  that  Barnaby’s  raven  was  at  Miggs’s 
ankles,  “you  had  better  get  to  bed  at  once  then.” 

“Thanking  you  kindly,  sir,”  returned  Miggs,  “I 
couldn’t  take  my  rest  in  peace,  nor  fix  my  thoughts 
upon  my  prayers,  otlierways  than  that  I  knew  mis¬ 
tress  was  comfortable  in  her  bed  this  night ;  by  rights 
she  ought  to  have  been  there,  hours  ago.” 

“You’re  talkative,  mistress,”  said  Yarden,  pulling 
off  his  great-coat  and  looking  at  her  askew. 

“Taking  the  hint,  sir,”  cried  Miggs,  with  a  flushed 
face,  “  and  thanking  you  for  it  most  kindly,  I  will 
make  bold  to  say,  that  if  I  give  offense  by  having 
consideration  for  my  mistress,  I  do  not  ask  your  par¬ 
don,  but  am  content  to  get  myself  into  trouble  and 
to  be  in  suffering.” 

Here  Mrs.  Yarden,  who,  with  her  countenance 
shrouded  in  a  large  night-cap,  had  been  all  this  time 
intent  upon  the  Protestant  Manual,  looked  round, 
and  acknowledged  Miggs’s  championship  by  com¬ 
manding  her  to  hold  her  tongue. 

Every  little  bone  in  Miggs’s  throat  and  neck  de¬ 
veloped  itself  with  a  spitefulness  quite  alarming,  as 
she  replied,  “  Yes,  mim,  I  will.” 

“How  do  you  find  yourself  now,  my  dear?”  said 
the  lock-smith,  taking  a  chair  near  his  wife  (who  had 
resumed  her  book),  and  rubbing  his  knees  hard  as 
he  made  the  inquiry. 

“You’re  very  anxious  to  know,  an’t  you?”  re¬ 
turned  Mrs.  Yarden,  with  her  eyes  upon  the  print. 
“You  that  have  not  been  near  me  all  day,  and 
wouldn’t  have  been  if  I  was  dying !” 

“  My  dear  Martha — said  Gabriel. 

Mrs.  Varden  turned  over  to  the  next  page;  then 
went  back  again  to  the  bottom  line  over-leaf  to  be 
quite  sure  of  the  last  words ;  and  then  went  on  read¬ 
ing  with  an  appearance  of  the  deepest  interest  and 
study. 


“My  dear  Martha,”  said  the  lock-smith,  “how  can 
you  say  such  things,  when  you  know  you  don’t  mean 
them.  If  you  were  dying !  Why,  if  there  was  any 
thing  serious  the  matter  with  you,  Martha,  shouldn’t 
I  be  in  constant  attendance  upon  you  ?” 

“Yes!”  cried  Mrs.  Yarden,  bursting  into  tears, 
“yes,  you  would.  I  don’t  doubt  it,  Varden.  Cer¬ 
tainly  you  would.  That’s  as  much  as  to  tell  me  that 
you  would  be  hovering  round  me  like  a  vulture, 
waiting  till  the  breath  was  out  of  my  body,  that  you 
might  go  and  marry  somebody  else.” 

Miggs  groaned  in  sympathy — a  little  short  groan, 
checked  in  its  birth,  and  changed  into  a  cough.  It 
seemed  to  say,  “  I  can’t  help  it.  It’s  wrung  from  me 
by  the  dreadful  brutality  of  that  monster  master.” 

“  But  you’ll  break  my  heart  one  of  these  days,” 
added  Mrs.  Varden,  with  more  resignation,  “  and  then 
we  shall  both  be  happy.  My  only  desire  is  to  see 
Dolly  comfortably  settled,  and  when  she  is,  you  may 
settle  me  as  soon  as  you  like.” 

“Ah!”  cried  Miggs — and  coughed  again. 

Poor  Gabriel  twisted  his  wig  about  in  silence  for 
a  long  time,  and  then  said,  mildly,  “  Has  Dolly  gone 
to  bed  ?” 

“  Your  master  speaks  to  you,”  said  Mrs.  Yarden, 
looking  sternly  over  her  shoulder  at  Miss  Miggs  in 
waiting. 

“  No,  my  dear,  I  spoke  to  you,”  suggested  the  lock¬ 
smith. 

“Did  you  hear  me,  Miggs?”  cried  the  obdurate 
lady,  stamping  her  foot  upon  the  ground.  “  Ton  are 
beginning  to  despise  me  now,  are  you  ?  But  this  is 
example !” 

At  this  cruel  rebuke,  Miggs,  whose  tears  were  al¬ 
ways  ready,  for  large  or  small  parties,  on  the  short¬ 
est  notice  and  the  most  reasonable  terms,  fell  a-cry- 
ing  violently;  holding  both  her  hands  tight  upon 
her  heart  meanwhile,  as  if  nothing  less  would  pre¬ 
vent  its  splitting  into  small  fragments.  Mrs.  Yar¬ 
den,  who  likewise  possessed  that  faculty  in  high 
perfection,  wept  too,  against  Miggs ;  and  with  such 
effect  that  Miggs  gave  in  after  a  time,  and,  except 
for  an  occasional  sob,  which  seemed  to  threaten  some 
remote  intention  of  breaking  out  again,  left  her  mis¬ 
tress  in  possession  of  the  field.  Her  superiority  be¬ 
ing  thoroughly  asserted,  that  lady  soon  desisted  like¬ 
wise,  and  fell  into  a  quiet  melancholy. 

The  relief  was  so  great,  and  the  fatiguing  occur¬ 
rences  of  last  night  so  completely  overpowered  the 
lock-smith,  that  he  nodded  in  his  chair,  and  would 
doubtless  have  slept  there  all  night,  but  for  the  voice 
of  Mrs.  Yarden,  which,  after  a  pause  of  some  five  min¬ 
utes,  awoke  him  with  a  start. 

“  If  I  am  ever,”  said  Mrs.  Y. — not  scolding,  but  in 
a  sort  of  monotonous  remonstrance — “  in  spirits,  if  I 
am  ever  cheerful,  if  I  am  ever  more  than  usually  dis¬ 
posed  to  be  talkative  and  comfortable,  this  is  the 
way  I  am  treated.” 

“  Such  spirits  as  you  was  in  too,  mim,  but  half  an 
hour  ago !”  cried  Miggs.  “  I  never  see  such  company !” 

“  Because,”' said  Mrs.  Yarden,  “  because  I  never  in¬ 
terfere  or  interrupt ;  because  I  never  question  where 
any  body  comes  or  goes;  because  my  whole  mind 
and  soul  is  bent  on  saving  where  I  can  save,  and 
laboring  in  this  house;  therefore,  they  try  me  as 
they  do.” 


30 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“  Martha/7  urged  the  lock-smith,  endeavoring  to 
look  as  wakeful  as  possible,  “what  is  it  you  com¬ 
plain  of?  I  really  came  home  with  every  wish  and 
desire  to  be  happy.  I  did,  indeed.” 

“  What  do  I  complain  of!”  retorted  his  wife.  “  Is 
it  a  chilling  thing  to  have  one’s  husband  sulking  and 
falling  asleep  directly  he  comes  home — to  have  him 
freezing  all  one’s  warm-heartedness,  and  throwing 


lock-smith.  “  I  was  really  afraid  you  were  not  dis¬ 
posed  to  talk  pleasantly ;  I’ll  tell  you  every  thing ; 
I  shall  only  be  too  glad,  my  dear.” 

“  No,  Varden,”  returned  his  wife,  rising  with  digni¬ 
ty.  “  I  dare  say — thank  you !  I’m  not  a  child  to 
be  corrected  one  minute  and  petted  the  next — I’m 
a  little  too  old  for  that,  Varden.  Miggs,  carry  the 
light.  You  can  be  cheerful,  Miggs,  at  least.” 


“if  I  AM  EVER,  SAID  MRS.  V. — MOT  SCOLDING,  BUT  IN  A  SORT  OF  MONOTONOUS  REMONSTRANCE — “iN  SPIRITS,  IF  I  AM  EVER  CHEERFUL, 
IF  I  AM  EVER  MORE  THAN  USUALLY  DISPOSED  TO  BE  TALKATIVE  AND  COMFORTABLE,  THIS  IS  THE  WAY  I  AM  TREATED.” 


cold  water  over  the  fireside  ?  Is  it  natural,  when  I 
know  he  went  out  upon  a  matter  in  which  I  am  as 
much  interested  as  any  body  can  be,  that  I  should 
wish  to  know  all  that  has  happened,  or  that  he  should 
tell  me  without  my  begging  and  praying  him  to  do 
it  ?  Is  that  natural,  or  is  it  not  ?” 

“  I  am  very  sorry,  Martha,”  said  the  good  natured 


Miggs,  who,  to  this  moment,  had  been  in  the  very 
depths  of  compassionate  despondency,  passed  in¬ 
stantly  into  the  liveliest  state  conceivable,  and  toss¬ 
ing  her  head  as  she  glanced  toward  the  lock-smith, 
bore  off  her  mistress  and  the  light  together. 

“  Now,  who  would  think,”  thought  Varden,  shrug¬ 
ging  his  shoulders  and  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to 


SIM  TAP  PERT  IT. 


31 


the  fire,  “  that  that  woman  could  ever  he  pleasant 
and  agreeable  ?  And  yet  she  can  be.  Well,  well,  all 
of  us  have  our  faults.  I’ll  not  be  hard  upon  hers. 
We  have  been  man  and  wife  too  long  for  that.” 

He  dozed  again — not  the  less  pleasantly,  perhaps, 
for  his  hearty  temper.  While  his  eyes  were  closed, 
the  door  leading  to  the  upper  stairs  was  partially 
opened ;  and  a  head  appeared,  which,  at  sight  of 
him,  hastily  drew  back  again. 

“  I  wish,”  murmured  Gabriel,  waking  at  the  noise, 
and  looking  round  the  room,  “  I  wish  somebody 
would  marry  Miggs.  But  that’s  impossible !  I  won¬ 
der  whether  there’s  any  madman  alive,  who  would 
marry  Miggs !” 

This  was  such  a  vast  speculation  that  he  fell  into 
a  doze  again,  and  slept  until  the  fire  was  quite  burn¬ 
ed  out.  At  last  he  roused  himself;  and  having  dou¬ 
ble-locked  the  street  door  according  to  custom,  and 
put  the  key  in  his  pocket,  went  otf  to  bed. 

He  had  not  left  the  room  in  darkness  many  min¬ 
utes,  when  the  head  again  appeared,  and  Sim  Tap- 
pertit  entered,  bearing  in  his  hand  a  little  lamp. 

“What  the  devil  business  has  he  to  stop  up  so 
late!”  muttered  Sim,  passing  into  the  workshop,  and 
setting  it  down  upon  the  forge.  “Here’s  half  the 
night  gone  already.  There’s  only  one  good  that 
has  ever  come  to  me,  out  of  this  cursed  old  rusty 
mechanical  trade,  and  that’s  this  piece  of  iron-mon- 
gery,  upon  my  soul !” 

As  he  spoke,  he  drew  from  the  right-hand,  or  rath¬ 
er  right-leg  pocket  of  his  smalls,  a  clumsy  large¬ 
sized  key,  which  he  inserted  cautiously  in  the  lock 
his  master  had  secured,  and  softly  opened  the  door. 
That  done,  he  replaced  his  piece  of  secret  workman¬ 
ship  in  his  pocket ;  and  leaving  the  lamp  burning, 
and  closing  the  door  carefully  and  without  noise, 
stole  out  into  the  street — as  little  suspected  by  the 
lock-smith  in  his  sound  deep  sleep,  as  by  Barnaby 
himself  in  his  phantom-haunted  dreams. 

% 

- - 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

CLEAR  of  the  lock-smith’s  house,  Sim  Tappertit 
laid  aside  his  cautious  manner,  and  assuming  in 
its  stead  that  of  a  ruffling,  swaggering,  roving  blade, 
who  would  rather  kill  a  man  than  otherwise,  and  eat 
him  too  if  needful,  made  the  best  of  his  way  along 
the  darkened  streets. 

Half  pausing  for  an  instant  now  and  then  to  smite 
his  pocket  and  assure  himself  of  the  safety  of  his 
master’s  key,  he  hurried  on  to  Barbican,  and  turn¬ 
ing  into  one  of  the  narrowest  of  the  narrow  streets 
which  diverged  from  that  centre,  slackened  his  pace 
and  wiped  his  heated  brow,  as  if  the  termination  of 
his  walk  were  near  at  hand. 

It  was  not  a  very  choice  spot  for  midnight  expe¬ 
ditions,  being  in  truth  one  of  more  than  question¬ 
able  character,  and  of  an  appearance  by  no  means 
inviting.  From  the  main  street  he  had  entered,  it¬ 
self  little  better  than  an  alley,  a  low-browed  door¬ 
way  led  into  a  blind  court,  or  yard,  profoundly  dark, 
unpaved,  and  reeking  with  stagnant  odors.  Into 
this  ill-favored  pit  the  lock-smith’s  vagrant  ’prentice 
groped  his  way ;  and  stopping  at  a  house  from  whose 


defaced  and  rotten  front  the  rude  effigy  of  a  bottle 
swung  to  and  fro  like  some  gibbeted  malefactor, 
struck  thrice  upon  an  iron  grating  with  his  foot. 
After  listening  in  vain  for  some  response  to  his  sig¬ 
nal,  Mr.  Tappertit  became  impatient,  and  struck  the 
grating  thrice  again. 

A  further  delay  ensued,  but  it  was  not  of  long  du¬ 
ration.  The  ground  seemed  to  open  at  his  feet,  and 
a  ragged  head  appeared. 

“  Is  that  the  captain  ?”  said  a  voice  as  ragged  as 
the  head. 

“Yes,”  replied  Mr.  Tappertit,  haughtily,  descend¬ 
ing  as  he  spoke ;  “  who  should  it  be  ?” 

“  It’s  so  late,  we  gave  you  up,”  returned  the  voice, 
as  its  owner  stopped  to  shut  and  fasten  the  grating. 
u  You’re  late,  sir.” 

“Lead  on,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  with  a  gloomy 
majesty,  “  and  make  remarks  when  I  require  you. 
Forward !” 

This  latter  word  of  command  was  perhaps  some¬ 
what  theatrical  and  unnecessary,  inasmuch  as  the 
descent  was  by  a  very  narrow,  steep,  and  slippery 
flight  of  steps,  and  any  rashness  or  departure  from 
the  beaten  track  must  have  ended  in  a  yawning  wa¬ 
ter-butt.  But  Mr.  Tappertit  being,  like  some  other 
great  commanders,  favorable  to  strong  effects,  and 
personal  display,  cried  “Forward!”  again,  in  the 
hoarsest  voice  he  could  assume,  and  led  the  way, 
with  folded  arms  and  knitted  brows,  to  the  cellar 
down  below,  where  there  was  a  small  copper  fixed 
in  one  corner,  a  chair  or  two,  a  form  and  table,  a 
glimmering  fire,  and  a  truckle-bed,  covered  with  a 
ragged  patchwork  rug. 

“  Welcome,  noble  captain !”  cried  a  lanky  figure, 
rising  as  from  a  nap. 

The  captain  nodded.  Then,  throwing  off  his  out¬ 
er  coat,  he  stood  composed  in  all  his  dignity,  and 
eyed  his  follower  over. 

“What  news  to-night?”  he  asked,  when  he  had 
looked  into  his  very  soul. 

“Nothing  particular,”  replied  the  other,  stretch¬ 
ing  himself — and  he  was  so  long  already  that  it  was 
quite  alarming  to  see  him  do  it — “how  come  you  to 
be  so  late  ?” 

“  No  matter,”  was  all  the  captain  deigned  to  say 
in  answer.  “  Is  the  room  prepared  ?” 

“  It  is,”  replied  the  follower. 

“  The  comrade — is  he  here  ?” 

“  Yes.  And  a  sprinkling  of  the  others — you  hear 
’em  ?” 

“  Playing  skittles !”  said  the  captain,  moodily. 
“  Light-hearted  revelers !” 

There  was  no  doubt  respecting  the  particular 
amusement  in  which  these  heedless  spirits  were  in¬ 
dulging,  for  even  in  the  close  and  stifling  atmos¬ 
phere  of  the  vault,  the  noise  sounded  like  distant 
thunder.  It  certainly  appeared,  at  first  sight,  a  sin¬ 
gular  spot  to  choose,  for  that  or  any  other  purpose 
of  relaxation,  if  the  other  cellars  answered  to  the 
one  in  which  this  brief  colloquy  took  place  ;  for  the 
floors  were  of  sodden  earth,  the  walls  and  roof  of 
damp  bare  brick  tapestried  with  the  tracks  of  snails 
and  slugs ;  the  air  was  sickening,  tainted,  and  of¬ 
fensive.  It  seemed,  from  one  strong  flavor  which 
was  uppermost  among  the  various  odors  of  the 
place,  that  it  had,  at  no  very  distant  period,  been 


32 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


used  as  a  store-house  for  cheeses ;  a  circumstauce 
which,  while  it  accounted  for  the  greasy  moisture 
that  hung  about  it,  was  agreeably  suggestive  of 
rats.  It  was  naturally  damp  besides,  and  little  trees 
of  fungus  sprang  from  every  mouldering  corner. 

The  proprietor  of  this  charming  retreat,  and  own¬ 
er  of  the  ragged  head  before  mentioned — for  he  wore 
an  old  tie-wig  as  bare  and  frouzy  as  a  stunted  hearth- 
broom — had  by  this  time  joined  them;  and  stood  a 
little  apart,  rubbing  his  hands,  wagging  his  hoary 
bristled  chin,  and  smiling  in  silence.  His  eyes  were 
closed;  but  had  they  been  wide  open,  it  would  have 
been  easy  to  tell,  from  the  attentive  expression  of 
the  face  he  turned  toward  them — pale  and  unwhole¬ 
some  as  might  be  expected  in  one  of  his  under-ground 
existence — and  from  a  certain  anxious  raising  and 
quivering  of  the  lids,  that  he  was  blind. 

“  Even  Stagg  had  been  asleep,”  said  the  long  com¬ 
rade,  nodding  toward  this  person. 

“  Sound,  captain,  sound !”  cried  the  blind  man  ; 
“  what  does  my  noble  captain  drink — is  it  brandy, 
rum,  usquebaugh  ?  Is  it  soaked  gunpowder  or  blaz¬ 
ing  oil  ?  Give  it  a  name,  heart  of  oak,  and  we’d  get 
it  for  you,  if  it  was  wine  from  a  bishop’s  cellar,  or 
melted  gold  from  King  George’s  mint.” 

“  See,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  haughtily,  “  that  it’s 
something  strong,  and  comes  quick ;  and  so  long  as 
you  take  care  of  that,  you  may  bring  it  from  the 
devil’s  cellar,  if  you  like.” 

“Boldly  said,  noble  captain!”  rejoined  the  blind 
man.  “  Spoken  like  the  ’Prentices’  Glory.  Ha,  ha ! 
From  the  devil’s  cellar !  A  brave  joke !  The  captain 
joketh.  Ha,  ha,  ha!” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  fine  feller,”  said  Mr.  Tap¬ 
pertit,  eying  the  host  over  as  he  walked  to  a  closet, 
and  took  out  a  bottle  and  glass  as  carelessly  as  if  he 
had  been  in  full  possession  of  his  sight,  “  if  you  make 
that  row,  you’ll  find  that  the  captain’s  very  far  from 
joking,  and  so  I  tell  you.” 

“He’s  got  his  eyes  on  me!”  cried  Stagg,  stopping 
short  on  his  way  back,  and  affecting  to  screen  his 
face  with  the  bottle.  “  I  feel  ’em  though  I  can’t  see 
’em.  Take  ’em  off,  noble  captain.  Remove  ’em,  for 
they  pierce  like  gimlets.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  smiled  grimly  at  his  comrade ;  and 
twisting  out  one  more  look — a  kind  of  ocular  screw — 
under  the  influence  of  which  the  blind  man  feigned 
to  undergo  great  anguish  and  torture,  bade  him,  in 
a  softened  tone,  approach,  and  hold  his  peace. 

“I  obey  you,  captain,”  cried  Stagg,  drawing  close 
to  him  and  filling  out  a  bumper  without  spilling  a 
drop,  by  reason  that  he  held  his  little  finger  at  the 
brim  of  the  glass,  and  stopped  at  the  instant  the 
liquor  touched  it,  “  drink,  noble  governor.  Death  to 
all  masters,  life  to  all  ’prentices,  and  love  to  all  fair 
damsels.  Drink,  brave  general,  and  warm  your  gal¬ 
lant  heart !” 

Mr.  Tappertit  condescended  to  take  the  glass  from 
his  outstretched  hand.  Stagg  then  dropped  on  one 
knee,  and  gently  smoothed  the  calves  of  his  legs, 
with  au  air  of  humble  admiration. 

“  That  I  had  but  eyes !”  he  cried,  “  to  behold  my 
captain’s  symmetrical  proportions!  That  I  had  but 
eyes,  to  look  upon  these  twin  invaders  of  domestic 
peace !” 

“  Get  out !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  glancing  down¬ 


ward  at  his  favorite  limbs.  “  Go  along,  will  you, 
Stagg !” 

“  When  I  touch  my  own  afterward,”  cried  the 
host,  smiting  them  reproachfully,  “  I  hate  ’em.  Com¬ 
paratively  speaking,  they’ve  no  more  shape  than 
wooden  legs,  beside  these  models  of  my  noble  cap¬ 
tain’s.” 

“  Yours  !”  exclaimed  Mr.  Tappertit.  “  No,  I  should 
think  not.  Don’t  talk  about  those  precious  old 
tooth-picks  in  the  same  breath  with  mine;  that’s 
rather  too  much.  Here.  Take  the  glass.  Benjamin. 
Lead  on.  To  business  !” 

With  these  words,  he  folded  his  arms  again  ;  and 
frowning  with  a  sullen  majesty,  passed  with  his  com¬ 
panion  through  a  little  door  at  the  upper  end  of  the 
cellar,  and  disappeared  ;  leaving  Stagg  to  his  private 
meditations. 

The  vault  they  entered,  strewn  with  sawdust  and 
dimly  lighted,  was  between  the  outer  one  from  which 
they  had  just  come,  and  that  in  which  the  skittle- 
players  were  diverting  themselves  ;  as  was  manifest¬ 
ed  by  the  increased  noise  and  clamor  of  tongues, 
which  was  suddenly  stopped,  however,  and  replaced 
by  a  dead  silence,  at  a  signal  from  the  long  comrade. 
Then,  this  young  gentleman,  going  to  a  little  cup¬ 
board,  returned  with  a  thigh-bone,  which  in  former 
times  must  have  been  part  and  parcel  of  some  indi¬ 
vidual  at  least  as  long  as  himself,  and  placed  the 
same  in  the  hands  of  Mr.  Tappertit;  who,  receiving 
it  as  a  sceptre  and  staff  of  authority,  cocked  his 
three-cornered  hat  fiercely  on  the  top  of  his  head, 
and  mounted  a  large  table,  whereon  a  chair  of  state, 
cheerfully  ornamented  with  a  couple  of  skulls,  was 
placed  ready  for  his  reception. 

He  had  no  sooner  assumed  this  position,  than  an¬ 
other  young  gentleman  appeared,  bearing  in  his  arms 
a  huge  clasped  book,  who  made  him  a  profound 
obeisance,  and  delivering  it  to  the  long  comrade,  ad¬ 
vanced  to  the  table,  and  turning  his  back  upon  it, 
stood  there  Atlas- wise.  Then,  the  long  comrade  got 
upon  the  table  too;  and  seating  himself  in  a  lower 
chair  than  Mr.  Tappertit’s,  with  much  state  and  cere¬ 
mony,  placed  the  large  book  on  the  shoulders  of  their 
mute  companion  as  deliberately  as  if  he  had  been  a 
wooden  desk,  and  prepared  to  make  entries  therein 
with  a  pen  of  corresponding  size. 

When  the  long  comrade  had  made  these  prepara¬ 
tions,  he  looked  toward  Mr.  Tappertit ;  and  Mr.  Tap¬ 
pertit,  flourishing  the  bone,  knocked  nine  times 
therewith  upon  one  of  the  skulls.  At  the  ninth 
stroke,  a  third  young  gentleman  emerged  from  the 
door  leading  to  the  skittle-ground,  and  bowing  low, 
awaited  his  commands. 

“  ’Prentice !”  said  the  mighty  captain,  “  who  waits 
without  ?” 

“  The  ’prentice  made  answer  that  a  stranger  was 
in  attendance,  wbo  claimed  admission  into  that  se¬ 
cret  society  of  ’Prentice  Knights,  and  a  free  partici¬ 
pation  in  their  rights,  privileges,  and  immunities. 
Thereupon  Mr.  Tappertit  flourished  the  bone  again, 
and  giving  the  other  skull  a  prodigious  rap  on  the 
nose,  exclaimed  “Admit  him !”  At  these  dread  words 
the  ’prentice  bowed  once  more,  and  so  withdrew  as 
he  had  come. 

There  soon  appeared  at  the  same  door  two  other 
’prentices,  having  between  them  a  third,  whose  eyes 


SOLEMNITIES  OF  THE  ’ PRENTICE  KNIGHTS. 


33 


were  bandaged,  and  who  was  attired  in  a  bag-wig, 
and  a  broad-skirted  coat,  trimmed  with  tarnished 
lace  ;  and  who  was  girded  with  a  sword,  in  compli¬ 
ance  with  the  laws  of  the  Institution  regulating  the 
introduction  of  candidates,  which  required  them  to 
assume  this  courtly  dress,  and  kept  it  constantly  in 
lavender,  for  their  convenience.  One  of  the  conduct¬ 
ors  of  this  novice  held  a  rusty  blunderbuss  pointed 
toward  his  ear,  and  the  other  a  very  ancient  sabre, 
with  which  he  carved  imaginary  offenders  as  he 
came  along  in  a  sanguinary  and  anatomical  manner. 

As  this  silent  group  advanced,  Mr.  Tappertit  fixed 
his  hat  upon  his  head.  The  novice  then  laid  his 
hand  upon  his  breast  and  bent  before  him.  When  he 
had  humbled  himself  sufficiently,  the  captain  order¬ 
ed  the  bandage  to  be  removed,  and  proceeded  to  eye 
him  over. 

“  Ha !”  said  the  captain,  thoughtfully,  when  he  had 
concluded  this  ordeal.  “  Proceed.” 

The  long  comrade  read  aloud  as  follows :  Mark 
Gilbert.  Age,  nineteen.  Bound  to  Thomas  Curzon, 
hosier,  Golden  Fleece,  Aldgate.  Loves  Curzon’s 
daughter.  Can  not  say  that  Curzon’s  daughter  loves 
him.  Should  think  it  probable.  Curzon  pulled  his 
ears  last  Tuesday  week.” 

“  How!”  cried  the  captain,  starting. 

“For  looking  at  his  daughter,  please  you,”  said 
the  novice. 

“Write  Curzon  down,  Denounced,”  said  the  cap¬ 
tain.  “Put  a  black  cross  against  the  name  of  Cur¬ 
zon.” 

“  So  please  you,”  said  the  novice,  “  that’s  not  the 
worse — he  calls  his  ’prentice  idle  dog,  and  stops  his 
beer  unless  he  works  to  his  liking.  He  gives  Dutch 
cheese,  too,  eating  Cheshire,  sir,  himself;  and  Sun¬ 
days  out  are  only  once  a  month.” 

“  This,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  gravely,  “  is  a  flagrant 
case.  Put  two  black  crosses  to  the  name  of  Curzon.” 

“  If  the  society,”  said  the  novice,  who  was  an  ill- 
looking,  one-sided,  shambling  lad,  with  sunken  eyes 
set  close  together  in  his  head — “  if  the  society  would 
burn  his  house  down — for  he’s  not  insured — or  beat 
him  as  he  comes  home  from  his  club  at  night,  or  help 
me  to  carry  off  his  daughter,  and  marry  her  at  the 
Fleet,  whether  she  gave  consent  or  no — 

Mr.  Tappertit  waved  his  grizzly  truncheon  as  an 
admonition  to  him  not  to  interrupt,  and  ordered 
three  black  crosses  to  the  name  of  Curzon. 

“  Which  means,”  he  said  in  gracious  explanation, 
“vengeance,  complete  and  terrible.  ’Prentice,  do 
you  love  the  Constitution  ?” 

To  which  the  novice  (being  to  that  end  instructed 
by  his  attendant  sponsors)  replied,  “  I  do !” 

“  The  Church,  the  State,  and  every  thing  estab¬ 
lished — but  the  masters  ?”  quoth  the  captain. 

Again  the  novice  said,  “  I  do.” 

Having  said  it,  he  listened  meekly  to  the  captain, 
who  in  an  address  prepared  for  such  occasions,  told 
him  flow  that  under  that  same  Constitution  (which 
was  kept  in  a  strong  box  somewhere,  but  where  ex¬ 
actly  he  could  not  find  out,  or  he  would  have  en¬ 
deavored  to  procure  a  copy  of  it),  the  ’prentices  had, 
in  times  gone  by,  had  frequent  holidays  of  right, 
broken  people’s  heads  by  Scores,  defied  their  masters, 
nay,  even  achieved  some  glorious  murders  in  the 
streets,  which  privileges  had  gradually  been  wrested 

3 


from  them,  and  in  all  which  noble  aspirations  they 
were  now  restrained ;  how  the  degrading  checks  im¬ 
posed  upon  them  were  unquestionably  attributable 
to  the  innovating  spirit  of  the  times,  and  how  they 
united  therefore  to  resist  all  change,  except  such 
change  as  would  restore  those  good  old  English  cus¬ 
toms,  by  which  they  would  stand  or  fall.  After  il¬ 
lustrating  the  wisdom  of  going  backward,  by  refer¬ 
ence  to  that  sagacious  fish,  the  crab,  and  the  not 
unfrequent  practice  of  the  mule  and  donkey,  he  de¬ 
scribed  their  general  objects ;  which  were  briefly 
vengeance  on  their  Tyrant  Masters  (of  whose  griev¬ 
ous  and  insupportable  oppression  no  ’prentice  could 
entertain  a  moment’s  doubt)  and  the  restoration,  as 
aforesaid,  of  their  ancient  rights  and  holidays ;  for 
neither  of  which  objects  were  they  now  quite  ripe, 
being  barely  twenty  strong,  but  wflich  they  pledged 
themselves  to  pursue  with  fire  and  sword  when  need¬ 
ful.  Then  he  described  the  oath  which  every  mem¬ 
ber  of  that  small  remnant  of  a  noble  body  took,  and 
which  was  of  a  dreadful  and  impressive  kind ;  bind¬ 
ing  him,  at  the  bidding  of  his  chief,  to  resist  and  ob¬ 
struct  the  Lord  Mayor,  sword-bearer,  and  chaplain ; 
to  despise  the  authority  of  the  sheriffs ;  and  to  hold 
the  court  of  aldermen  as  naught ;  but  not  on  any  ac¬ 
count,  in  case  the  fullness  of  time  should  bring  a  gen¬ 
eral  rising  of  ’prentices,  to  damage  or  in  any  way 
disfigure  Temple  Bar,  which  was  strictly  constitu¬ 
tional  and  always  to  be  approached  with  reverence. 
Having  gone  over  these  several  heads  with  great  elo¬ 
quence  and  force,  and  having  further  informed  the 
novice  that  this  society  had  its  origin  in  his  own 
teeming  brain,  stimulated  by  a  swelling  sense  of 
wrong  and  outrage,  Mr.  Tappertit  demanded  whether 
he  had  strength  of  heart  to  take  the  mighty  pledge 
required,  or  whether  he  would  withdraw  while  re¬ 
treat  was  yet  in  his  power. 

To  this  the  novice  made  rejoinder,  that  he  would 
take  the  vow,  though  it  should  choke  him ;  and  it 
was  accordingly  administered  with  many  impressive 
circumstances,  among  which  the  lighting  up  of  the 

two  skulls  with  a  candle-end  inside  of  each,  and  a 

/ 

great  many  flourishes  with  the  bone,  were  chiefly 
conspicuous ;  not  to  mention  a  variety  of  grave  ex¬ 
ercises  with  the  blunderbuss  and  sabre,  and  some 
dismal  groaning  by  unseen  ’prentices  without.  All 
these  dark  and  direful  ceremonies  being  at  length 
completed,  the  table  was  put  aside,  the  chair  of 
state  removed,  the  sceptre  locked  up  in  its  usual 
cupboard,  the  doors  of  communication  between  the 
three  cellars  thrown  freely  open,  and  the  ’Prentice 
Knights  resigned  themselves  to  merriment. 

But  Mr.  Tappertit,  who  had  a  soul  above  the  vul¬ 
gar  herd,  and  who,  on  account  of  his  greatness,  could 
only  afford  to  be  merry  now  and  then,  threw  him¬ 
self  on  a  bench  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was  faint 
with  dignity.  He  looked  with  an  indifferent  eye, 
alike  on  skittles,  cards,  and  dice,  thinking  only  of 
the  lock-smith’s  daughter,  and  the  base  degenerate 
days  on  which  he  had  fallen. 

“My  noble  captain  neither  games,  nor  sings,  nor 
dances,”  said  his  host,  taking  a  seat  beside  him. 
“  Drink,  gallant  general !” 

Mr.  Tappertit  drained  the  proffered  goblet  to  the 
dregs ;  then  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
with  a  lowering  visage  walked  among  the  skittles, 


34 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


while  his  followers  (such  is  the  influence  of  superior 
genius)  restrained  the  ardent  hall,  and  held  his  lit¬ 
tle  shins  in  dumb  respect. 

“  If  I  had  been  born  a  corsair  or  a  pirate,  a  brig¬ 
and,  gen-teel  highwayman  or  patriot — and  they’re 
the  same  thing,”  thought  Mr.  Tappertit,  musing 
among  the  nine-pins,  “  I  should  have  been  all  right. 
But  to  drag  out  a  ignoble  existence  unbeknown  to 
mankind  in  general — patience!  I  will  be  famous 
yet.  A  voice  within  me  keeps  on  whispering  Great¬ 
ness.  I  shall  burst  out  one  of  these  days,  and  when 
I  do,  -what  power  can  keep  me  down  ?  I  feel  my 
soul  getting  into  my  head  at  the  idea.  More  drink 
there !” 

“  The  novice,”  pursued  Mr.  Tappertit,  not  exactly 
in  a  voice  of  thunder,  for  his  tones,  to  say  the  truth, 
were  rather  cracked  and  shrill — but  very  impress¬ 
ively,  notwithstanding — “  where  is  he  ?” 

“  Here,  noble  captain !”  cried  Stagg.  “  One  stands 
beside  me  who  I  feel  is  a  stranger.” 

“  Have  you,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  letting  his  gaze 
fall  on  the  party  indicated,  who  was  indeed  the  new 
knight,  by  this  time  restored  to  his  own  apparel; 
“  Have  you  the  impression  of  your  street-door  key 
in  wax  ?” 

The  long  comrade  anticipated  the  reply,  by  pro¬ 
ducing  it  from  the  shelf  on  which  it  had  been  de¬ 
posited. 

“Good,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  scrutinizing  it  atten¬ 
tively,  while  a  breathless  silence  reigned  around; 
for  he  had  constructed  secret  door- keys  for  the 
whole  society,  and  perhaps  owed  something  of  his 
influence  to  that  mean  and  trivial  circumstance — 
on  such  slight  accidents  do  even  men  of  mind  de¬ 
pend  ! — “  This  is  easily  made.  Come  hither,  friend.” 

With  that,  he  beckoned  the  new  knight  apart, 
and  putting  the  pattern  in  his  pocket,  motioned  to 
him  to  walk  by  his  side. 

“And  so,”  he  said,  when  they  had  taken  a  few 
turns  up  and  down,  “  you — you  love  your  master’s 
daughter  ?” 

“I  do,”  said  the  ’prentice.  “Honor  bright.  No 
chaff,  you  know.” 

“  Have  you,”  rejoined  Mr.  Tappertit,  catching  him 
by  the  wrist,  and  giving  him  a  look  which  -would 
have  been  expressive  of  the  most  deadly  malevolence, 
but  for  an  accidental  hiccough  that  rather  interfered 
with  it ;  “  have  you  a — a  rival  ?” 

“Not  as  I  know  on,”  replied  the  ’prentice. 

“If  you  had  now” — said  Mr.  Tappertit — “what 
would  you — eh  ? — ” 

The  ’prentice  looked  fierce  and  clenched  his  fists. 

“  It  is  enough,”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  hastily,  “  we 
understand  each  other.  We  are  observed.  I  thank 
you.” 

So  saying,  he  cast  him  off  again ;  and  calling  the 
long  comrade  aside  after  taking  a  few  hasty  turns 
by  himself,  bade  him  immediately  write  and  post 
against  the  wall,  a  notice,  proscribing  one  Joseph 
Willet  (commonly  known  as  Joe)  of  Chigwell ;  for¬ 
bidding  all  ’Prentice  Knights  to  succor,  comfort,  or 
hold  communion  with  him ;  and  requiring  them,  on 
pain  of  excommunication,  to  molest,  hurt,  wrong, 
annoy,  and  pick  quarrels  with  the  said  Joseph,  when¬ 
soever  and  wheresoever  they,  or  any  of  them,  should 
happen  to  encounter  him. 


Having  relieved  his  mind  by  this  energetic  pro¬ 
ceeding,  he  condescended  to  approach  the  festive 
board,  and  warming  by  degrees,  at  length  deigned 
to  preside,  and  even  to  enchant  the  company  with  a 
song.  After  this,  he  rose  to  such  a  pitch  as  to  con¬ 
sent  to  regale  the  society  with  a  hornpipe,  which  he 
actually  performed  to  the  music  of  a  fiddle  (played 
by  an  ingenious  member)  with  such  surpassing  agil¬ 
ity  and  brilliancy  of  execution,  that  the  spectators 
could  not  be  sufficiently  enthusiastic  in  their  admi¬ 
ration  ;  and  their  host  protested,  with  tears  in  his 
eyes,  that  he  had  never  truly  felt  his  blindness  until 
that  moment. 

But  the  host  withdrawing — probably  to  weep  in 
secret — soon  returned  with  the  information  that  it 
wanted  little  more  than  an  hour  of  day,  and  that  all 
the  cocks  in  Barbican  had  already  begun  to  crow, 
as  if  their  lives  depended  on  it.  At  this  intelligence, 
the  ’Prentice  Knights  arose  in  haste,  and  marshaling 
into  a  line,  filed  off  one  by  one  and  dispersed  with 
all  speed  to  their  several  homes,  leaving  their  leader 
to  pass  the  grating  last. 

“  Good-night,  noble  captain,”  whispered  the  blind 
man  as  he  held  it  open  for  his  jiassage  out ;  “  fare¬ 
well,  brave  general.  By-by,  illustrious  commander. 
Good  luck  go  with  you  for  a — conceited,  bragging, 
empty-headed,  duck-legged  idiot.” 

With  which  parting  words,  coolly  added  as  he 
listened  to  his  receding  footsteps  and  locked  the 
grate  upon  himself,  he  descended  the  steps,  and 
lighting  the  fire  below  the  little  copper,  prepared, 
without  any  assistance,  for  his  daily  occupation  ; 
which  was  to  retail  at  the  area-head  above  penny¬ 
worths  of  broth  and  soup,  and  savory  puddings,  com¬ 
pounded  of  such  scraps  as  were  to  be  bought  in  the 
heap  for  tho  least  money  at  Fleet  Market  in  the 
evening  time ;  and  for  the  sale  of  which  he  had  need 
to  have  depended  chiefly  on  his  private  connection, 
for  the  court  had  no  thoroughfare,  and  was  not  that 
kind  of  place  in  which  many  people  were  likely  to 
take  the  air,  or  to  frequent  as  an  agreeable  prome¬ 
nade. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

CHRONICLERS  are  privileged  to  enter  where  they 
list,  to  come  and  go  through  key-holes,  to  ride 
upon  the  wind,  to  overcome,  in  their  soarings  up 
and  down,  all  obstacles  of  distance,  time,  and  place. 
Thrice  blessed  be  this  last  consideration,  since  it  en¬ 
ables  us  to  follow  the  disdainful  Miggs  even  into  the 
sanctity  of  her  chamber,  and  to  hold  her  in  sweet 
companionship  through  the  dreary  watches  of  the 
night ! 

Miss  Miggs,  having  undone  her  mistress,  as  she 
phrased  it  (which  means,  assisted  to  undress  her), 
and  having  seen  her  comfortably  to  bed  in  the  back 
room  on  the  first  floor,  -withdrew  to  her  own  apart¬ 
ment,  in  the  attic  story.  Notwithstanding  her  dec¬ 
laration  in  the  lock-smith’s  presence,  she  was  in  no 
mood  for  sleep ;  so,  putting  her  light  upon  the  ta¬ 
ble  and  withdrawing  the  little  window-curtain,  she 
gazed  out  pensively  at  the  wild  night  sky. 

Perhaps  she  wondered  what  star  was  destined  for 
her  habitation  when  she  had  run  her  little  course 


MISS  MIGGS’S  WATCH. 


35 


below ;  perhaps  speculated  which  of  those  glimmer¬ 
ing  spheres  might  be  the  natal  orb  of  Mr.  Tappertit ; 
perhaps  marveled  how  they  could  gaze  down  on  that 
perfidious  creature,  man,  and  not  sicken  and  turn 
green  as  chemists’  lamps ;  perhaps  thought  of  noth¬ 
ing  in  particular.  Whatever  she  thought  about, 
there  she  sat,  until  her  attention,  alive  to  any  thing 
connected  with  the  insinuating  ’prentice,  was  at¬ 
tracted  by  a  noise  in  the  next  room  to  her  own — 
his  room;  the  room  in  which  he  slept,  and  dreamed 
— it  might  be,  sometimes  dreamed  of  her. 

That  he  was  not  dreaming  now,  unless  he  was 
taking  a  walk  in  his  sleep,  was  clear,  for  every  now 
and  then  there  came  a  shuffling  noise,  as  though  he 
were  engaged  in  polishing  the  whitewashed  wall; 
then  a  gentle  creaking  of  his  door ;  then  the  faintest 
indication  of  his  stealthy  footsteps  on  the  landing- 
place  outside.  Noting  this  latter  circumstance,  Miss 
Miggs  turned  pale  and  shuddered,  as  mistrusting  his 
intentions;  and  more  than  once  exclaimed,  below 
her  breath,  “  Oh !  what  a  Providence  it  is,  as  I  am 
bolted  in !”  -which,  owing  doubtless  to  her  alarm, 
was  a  confusion  of  ideas  on  her  part  between  a  bolt 
and  its  use ;  for  though  there  was  one  on  the  door, 
it  was  not  fastened. 

Miss  Miggs’s  sense  of  hearing,  however,  having  as 
sharp  an  edge  as  her  temper,  and  being  of  the  same 
snappish  and  suspicious  kiud,  very  soon  informed 
her  that  the  footsteps  passed  her  door,  and  appeared 
to  have  some  object  quite  separate  and  disconnect¬ 
ed  from  herself.  At  this  discovery  she  became  more 
alarmed  than  ever,  and  was  about  to  give  utterance 
to  those  cries  of  “Thieves!”  and  “Murder!”  which 
she  had  hitherto  restrained,  when  it  occurred  to  her 
to  look  softly  out,  and  see  that  her  fears  had  some 
good  palpable  foundation. 

Looking  out  accordingly,  and  stretching  her  neck 
over  the  hand-rail,  she  descried,  to  her  great  amaze¬ 
ment,  Mr.  Tappertit  completely  dressed,  stealing 
down  stairs  one  step  at  a  time,  wdtli  his  shoes  in  one 
hand  and  a  lamp  in  the  other.  Following  him  with 
her  eyes,  and  going  down  a  little  way  herself  to  get 
the  better  of  an  intervening  angle,  she  beheld  him 
thrust  his  head  in  at  the  parlor  door,  draw  it  back 
again  with  great  swiftness,  and  immediately  begin 
a  retreat  up  stairs  with  all  possible  expedition. 

“Here’s  mysteries!”  said  the  damsel,  when  she 
was  safe  in  her  owrn  room  again,  quite  out  of  breath. 
“ Oh  gracious,  here’s  mysteries!” 

The  prospect  of  finding  any  body  out  in  any  thing, 
would  have  kept  Miss  Miggs  awake  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  henbane.  Presently,  she  heard  the  step 
again,  as  she  would  have  done  if  it  had  been  that  of 
a  feather  endowed  with  motion  and  walking  down 
on  tiptoe.  Then  gliding  out  as  before,  she  again  be¬ 
held  the  retreating  figure  of  the  ’prentice  ;  again  he 
looked  cautiously  in  at  the  parlor  door,  but  this  time 
iustead  of  retreating,  he  passed  in  and  disappeared. 

Miggs  was  back  in  her  room,  and  had  her  head 
out  of  the  window,  before  an  elderly  gentleman  could 
have  winked  and  recovered  from  it.  Out  he  came 
at  the  street  door,  shut  it  carefully  behind  him,  tried 
it  with  his  knee,  and  swaggered  off,  putting  some¬ 
thing  in  his  pocket  as  he  went  along.  At  this 
spectacle  Miggs  cried  “  Gracious !”  again,  and  then 
“Goodness  gracious!”  and  then  “Goodness  gracious 


me !”  and  then,  candle  in  hand,  went  down  stairs  as 
he  had  done.  Coming  to  the  workshop,  she  saw  the 
lamp  burning  on  the  forge,  and  every  thing  as  Sim 
had  left  it. 

“  Why  I  wish  I  may  only  have  a  walking  funeral, 
and  never  be  buried  decent  with  a  mourning-coach 
and  feathers,  if  the  boy  hasn’t  been  and  made  a  key 
for  his  own  self!”  cried  Miggs.  “Oh,  the  little  vil¬ 
lain  !” 

This  conclusion  was  not  arrived  at  without  con¬ 
sideration,  and  much  peeping  and  peering  about; 
nor  was  it  unassisted  by  the  recollection  that  she 
had  on  several  occasions  come  upon  the  ’prentice 
suddenly,  and  found  him  busy  at  some  mysterious 
occupation.  Lest  the  fact  of  Miss  Miggs  calling 
him,  on  whom  she  stooped  to  cast  a  favorable  eye, 
a  boy,  should  create  surprise  in  any  breast,  it  may 
be  observed  that  she  invariably  affected  to  regard 
all  male  bipeds  under  thirty  as  mere  chits  and  in¬ 
fants;  which  phenomenon  is  not  unusual  in  ladies 
of  Miss  Miggs’s  temper,  and  is  indeed  generally  found 
to  be  the  associate  of  such  indomitable  and  savage 
virtue. 

Miss  Miggs  deliberated  within  herself  for  some  lit¬ 
tle  time,  looking  hard  at  the  shop  door  wfflile  she  did 
so,  as  though  her  eyes  and  thoughts  were  both  upon 
it ;  and  then,  taking  a  sheet  of  paper  from  a  drawer, 
twisted  it  into  a  long  thin  spiral  tube.  Having 
filled  this  instrument  with  a  quantity  of  small  coal- 
dust  from  the  forge,  she  approached  the  door,  and 
dropping  on  one  knee  before  it,  dexterously  blew 
into  the  key-hole  as  much  of  these  fine  ashes  as  the 
lock  would  hold.  When  she  had  filled  it  to  the 
brim  in  a  very  workman-like  and  skillful  manner, 
she  crept  up  stairs  again,  and  chuckled  as  she  went. 

“  There !”  cried  Miggs,  rubbing  her  hands,  now- 
let’s  see  whether  you  won’t  be  glad  to  take  some  no¬ 
tice  of  me,  mister.  He,  he,  he  !  You’ll  have  eyes  for 
somebody  besides  Miss  Dolly  nowT,  I  think.  A  fat- 
faced  puss  she  is,  as  ever  I  come  across !” 

As  she  uttered  this  criticism,  she  glanced  approv¬ 
ingly  at  her  small  mirror,  as  who  should  say,  I  thank 
my  stars  that  can’t  be  said  of  me ! — as  it  certainly 
could  not ;  for  Miss  Miggs’s  style  of  beauty  w-as  of 
that  kind  which  Mr.  Tappertit  himself  had  not  in¬ 
aptly  termed,  in  private,  “  scraggy.” 

“  I  don’t  go  to  bed  this  night !”  said  Miggs,  wrap¬ 
ping  herself  in  a  shawl,  and  drawing  a  couple  of 
chairs  near  the  window,  flouncing  down  upon  one, 
and  putting  her  feet  upon  the  other,  “  till  you  come 
home,  my  lad.  I  w-ouldn’t,”  said  Miggs,  viciously, 
“no,  not  for  five-and-forty  pound!” 

With  that,  and  with  an  expression  of  face  in  which 
a  great  number  of  opposite  ingredients,  such  as  mis¬ 
chief,  cunning,  malice,  triumph,  and  patient  expec¬ 
tation,  were  all  mixed  up  together  in  a  kind  of  phys¬ 
iognomical  punch,  Miss  Miggs  composed  herself  to 
wait  and  listen,  like  some  fair  ogress  who  had  set  a 
trap  and  was  watching  for  a  nibble  from  a  plump 
young  traveler. 

She  sat  there,  wfith  perfect  composure,  all  night. 
At  length,  just  upon  break*  of  day,  there  -was  a  foot¬ 
step  in  the  street,  and  presently  she  could  hear  Mr. 
Tappertit  stop  at  the  door.  Then  she  could  make 
out  that  he  tried  his  key — that  he  was  blowing  into 
it — that  he  knocked  it  on  the  nearest  post  to  beat 


36 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


the  dust  out — that  he  took  it  under  a  lamp  to  look 
at  it — that  he  poked  hits  of  stick  into  the  lock  to 
clear  it — that  he  peeped  into  the  key-hole,  first  with 
one  eye,  and  then  with  the  other — that  he  tried  the 
key  again — that  he  couldn’t  turn  it,  and,  what  was 
worse,  couldn’t  get  it  out — that  he  bent  it — that  then 
it  was  much  less  disposed  to  come  out  than  before — 
that  he  gave  it  a  mighty  twist  and  a  great  pull,  and 
then  it  came  out  so  suddenly  that  he  staggered  back¬ 
ward — that  he  kicked  the  door — that  he  shook  it — 
finally,  that  he  smote  his  forehead,  and  sat  down  on 
the  step  in  despair. 

When  this  crisis  had  arrived,  Miss  Miggs,  affecting 
to  be  exhausted  with  terror,  aud  to  cling  to  the  win¬ 
dow-sill  for  support,  put  out  her  night-cap,  and  de¬ 
manded  in  a  faint  voice  who  was  there. 

Mr.  Tappertit  cried  “  Hush !”  and,  backing  into  the 
road,  exhorted  her  in  frenzied  pantomime  to  secrecy 
and  silence. 

“  Tell  me  one  thing,”  said  Miggs.  “  Is  it  thieves  ?” 

“No — no — no  !”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit. 

“  Then,”  said  Miggs,  more  faintly  than  before,  “  it’s 
fire.  Where  is  it,  sir  ?  It’s  near  this  room,  I  know. 
I’ve  a  good  conscience,  sir,  and  would  much  rather 
die  than  go  down  a  ladder.  All  I  wish  is,  respecting 
my  love  to  my  married  sister,  Golden  Lion  Court, 
number  twenty-sivin,  second  bell-handle  on  the  right- 
hand  door-post.” 

“  Miggs !”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  “  don’t  you  know 
me  ?  Sim,  you  know — Sim — ” 

“  Oh  !  what  about  him  ?”  cried  Miggs,  clasping 
her  hands.  “Is  he  in  any  danger?  Is  he  in  the 
midst  of  flames  and  blazes !  Oh  gracious,  gra¬ 
cious  !” 

“Why  I’m  here,  an’t  I?”  rejoined  Mr.  Tappertit, 
knocking  himself  on  the  breast.  “  Don’t  you  see  me  ? 
What  a  fool  you  are,  Miggs  !” 

“  There  !”  cried  Miggs,  unmindful  of  this  compli¬ 
ment.  “  Why — so  it — Goodness,  what  is  the  mean¬ 
ing  of —  If  you  please,  mim,  here’s — ” 

“  No,  no !”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  standing  on  tiptoe, 
as  if  by  that  means  he,  in  the  street,  were  any  nearer 
being  able  to  stop  the  mouth  of  Miggs  in  the  garret. 
“Don’t  ! — I’ve  been  out  without  leave,  and  some¬ 
thing  or  another’s  the  matter  with  the  lock.  Come 
down,  and  undo  the  shop  window,  that  I  may  get  in 
that  way.” 

“  I  dursn’t  do  it,  Simmun,”  cried  Miggs — for  that 
was  her  pronunciation  of  his  Christian  name.  “I 
dursn’t  do  it,  indeed.  You  know  as  well  as  any 
body,  how  particular  I  am.  And  to  come  down  in 
the  dead  of  night,  when  the  house  is  wrapped  in 
slumbers  and  weiled  in  obscurity.”  And  there  she 
stopped  and  shivered,  for  her  modesty  caught  cold  at 
the  very  thought. 

“  But  Miggs,”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit,  getting  under 
the  lamp,  that  she  might  see  his  eyes.  “  My  darling 
Miggs — ” 

Miggs  screamed  slightly. 

“  — That  I  love  so  much,  and  never  can  help  think¬ 
ing  of,”  and  it  is  impossible  to  describe  the  use  he 
made  of  his  eyes  when  he  said  this — “  do — for  my 
sake,  do.” 

“Oh,  Simmun,”  cried  Miggs,  “this  is  worse  than 
all.  I  know  if  I  come  down,  you’ll  go,  and — ” 

“  And  what,  my  precious !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit. 


“And  try,”  said  Miggs,  hysterically,  “to  kiss  me, 
or  some  such  dreadfulness ;  I  know  you  will !” 

“  I  swear  I  won’t,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  with  re¬ 
markable  earnestness.  “  Upon  my  soul  I  won’t.  It’s 
getting  broad  day,  and  the  watchman’s  waking  up. 
Angelic  Miggs !  If  you’ll  only  come  and  let  me  in,  I 
promise  you  faithfully  and  truly  I  won’t.” 

Miss  Miggs,  whose  gentle  heart  was  touched,  did 
not  wait  for  the  oath  (knowing  how  strong  the  temp¬ 
tation  was,  and  fearing  he  might  forswear  himself), 
but  tripped  lightly  down  the  stairs,  and  w  ith  her  own 
fair  hands  drew  back  the  rough  fastenings  of  the 
workshop  window.  Having  helped  the  wayward 
’prentice  in,  she  faintly  articulated  the  words  “  Sim¬ 
mun  is  safe !”  and,  yielding  to  her  woman’s  nature; 
immediately  became  insensible. 

“I  knew  I  should  quench  her,”  said  Sim,  rather 
embarrassed  by  this  circumstance.  “  Of  course  I  was 
certain  it  would  come  to  this,  but  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done — -if  I  hadn’t  eyed  her  over,  she 
wouldn’t  have  come  down.  Here.  Keep  up  a  min¬ 
ute,  Miggs.  What  a  slippery  figure  she  is !  There’s 
no  holding  her  comfortably.  Do  keep  up  a  minute, 
Miggs,  will  you  ?” 

As  Miggs,  however,  was  deaf  to  all  entreaties,  Mr. 
Tappertit  leaned  her  against  the  wall  as  one  might 
dispose  of  a  walking-stick  or  umbrella,  until  he  had 
secured  the  window,  when  he  took  her  in  his  arms 
again,  and,  in  short  stages  and  with  great  difficulty 
— arising  from  her  being  tall,  and  his  being  short, 
and  perhaps  in  some  degree  from  that  peculiar  phys¬ 
ical  conformation  on  which  he  had  already  remarked 
— carried  her  up  stairs,  and  planting  her  in  the  same 
umbrella  and  walking-stick  fashion,  just  inside  her 
own  door,  left  her  to  her  repose. 

“  He  may  be  as  cool  as  he  likes,”  said  Miss  Miggs, 
recovering  as  soon  as  she  was  left  alone  ;  “  but  I’m  in 
his  confidence,  and  he  can’t  help  himself,  nor  couldn’t 
if  he  was  twenty  Simmunses !” 


CHAPTER  X. 

IT  was  on  one  of  those  mornings,  common  in  early 
spring,  when  the  year,  fickle  and  changeable  in 
its  youth  like  all  other  created  things,  is  undecided 
whether  to  step  backward  into  winter  or  forward 
into  summer,  and  in  its  uncertainty  inclines  now  to 
the  one  and  now  to  the  other,  and  now  to  both  at 
once — wooing  summer  in  the  sunshine,  and  lingering 
still  with  winter  in  the  shade — it  was,  in  short,  on 
one  of  those  mornings,  when  it  is  hot  and  cold,  wet 
and  dry,  bright  and  lowering,  sad  and  cheerful,  with¬ 
ering  and  genial,  in  the  compass  of  one  short  hour, 
that  old  John  Willet,  who  was  dropping  asleep  over 
the  copper  boiler,  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  a  horse’s 
feet,  and  glancing  out  at  window,  beheld  a  traveler 
of  goodly  promise  checkiug  his  bridle  at  the  May- 
pole  door. 

He  was  none  of  your  flippant  young  fellows,  who 
would  call  for  a  tankard  of  mulled  ale,  and  make 
themselves  as  much  at  home  as  if  they  had  ordered 
a  hogshead  of  wine ;  none  of  your  audacious  young 
swaggerers,  who  would  even  penetrate  into  the  bar 
— that  solemm  sanctuary — and,  smiting  old  John 


A  GUEST  AT  THE  MAYPOLE. 


37 


upon  the  back,  inquire  if  there  was  never  a  pretty- 
girl  in  the  house,  and  where  he  hid  his  little  cham¬ 
ber-maids,  with  a  hundred  other  impertinences  of 
that  nature;  none  of  your  free-and-easy  compan¬ 
ions,  who  would  scrape  their  boots  upon  the  fire- 
dogs  in  the  common  room,  and  be  not  at  all  particu¬ 
lar  on  the  subject  of  spittoons ;  none  of  your  uncon¬ 
scionable  blades,  requiring  impossible  chops,  and  tak- 
iug  unheard-of  pickles  for  granted.  He  was  a  staid, 
grave,  placid  gentleman,  something  past  the  jmme 
of  life,  yet  upright  in  his  carriage,  for  all  that,  and 
slim  as  a  greyhound.  He  was  well  mounted  upon  a 
sturdy  chestnut  cob,  and  had  the  graceful  seat  of  an 
experienced  horseman ;  while  his  riding-gear,  though 
free  from  s.uch  fopperies  as  were  then  in  vogue,  was 
handsome  and  well  chosen.  He  wore  a  riding-coat 
of  a  somewhat  brighter  green  than  might  have  been 
expected  to  suit  the  taste  of  a  gentleman  of  his  years, 
with  a  short,  black  velvet  cape,  and  laced  pocket- 
holes  and  cuffs,  all  of  a  jaunty  fashion;  his  linen, 
too,  was  of  the  finest  kind,  worked  in  a  rich  pattern 
at  the  wrists  and  throat,  and  scrupulously  white. 
Although  he  seemed,  judging  from  the  mud  he  had 
picked  up  on  the  way,  to  have  come  from  London, 
his  horse  was  as  smooth  and  cool  as  his  own  iron- 
gray  periwig  and  pigtail.  Neither  man  nor  beast 
had  turned  a  single  hair;  and  saving  for  his  soiled 
skirts  and  spatterdashes,  this  gentleman,  with  his 
blooming  face,  white  teeth,  exactly-ordered  dress, 
and  perfect  calmness,  might  have  come  from  making 
an  elaborate  and  leisurely  toilet,  to  sit  for  an  eques¬ 
trian  portrait  at  old  John  Willet’s  gate. 

It  must  not  be  supposed  that  John  observed  these 
several  characteristics  by  other  than  very  slow  de¬ 
grees,  or  that  he  took  in  more  than  half  a  one  at  a 
time,  or  that  he  even  made  up  his  mind  upon  that, 
without  a  great  deal  of  very  serious  consideration. 
Indeed,  if  he  had  been  distracted  in  the  first  in¬ 
stance  by  questionings  and  orders,  it  would  have 
taken  him  at  the  least  a  fortnight  to  have  noted 
what  is  here  set  down;  but  it  happened  that  the 
gentleman,  being  struck  with  the  old  house,  or  with 
the  plump  pigeons  which  were  skimming  and  courte- 
sying  about  it,  or  with  the  tall  may -pole,  on  the 
top  of  which  a  weather-cock,  which  had  been  out  of 
order  for  fifteen  years,  performed  a  perpetual  walk 
to  the  music  of  its  own  creaking,  sat  for  some  little 
time  looking  round  in  silence.  Hence  John,  standing 
with  his  hand  upon  the  horse’s  bridle,  and  his  great 
eyes  on  the  rider,  and  with  nothing  passing  to  di¬ 
vert  his  thoughts,  had  really  got  some  of  these  lit¬ 
tle  circumstances  into  his  brain  by  the  time  he  was 
called  upon  to  speak. 

“A  quaint  place  this,”  said  the  gentleman — and 
his  voice  was  as  rich  as  his  dress.  “Are  you  the 
landlord  ?” 

“At  your  service,  sir,”  replied  John  Willet. 

“You  can  give  my  horse  good  stabling,  can  you, 
and  me  an  early  dinner  (I  am  not  particular  what, 
so  that  it  be  cleanly  served),  and  a  decent  room — of 
which  there  seems  to  be  no  lack  in  this  great  man¬ 
sion,”  said  the  stranger,  again  running  his  eyes  over 
the  exterior. 

“You  can  have,  sir,”  returned  John,  with  a  readi¬ 
ness  quite  surprising,  “  any  thing  you  please.” 

“  It’s  well  I  am  easily  satisfied,”  returned  the  other 


with  a  smile,  “  or  that  might  prove  a  hardy  pledge, 
my  friend.”  And  saying  so,  he  dismounted,  with 
the  aid  of  the  block  before  the  door,  in  a  twinkling. 

“Halloo  there!  Hugh!”  roared  John.  “I  ask 
your  pardon,  sir,  for  keeping  you  standing  in  the 
porch ;  but  my  son  has  gone  to  town  on  business, 
and  the  boy  being,  as  I  may  say,  of  a  kind  of  use  to 
me,  I’m  rather  put  out  when  he’s  away.  Hugh  ! — a 
dreadful  idle  vagrant  fellow,  sir,  half  a  gypsy,  as  I 
think — always  sleeping  in  the  sun  in  summer,  and 
in  the  straw  in  winter  time,  sir — Hugh  !  Dear  Lord, 
to  keep  a  gentleman  a-waiting  here  through  him ! — 
Hugh !  I  wish  that  chap  was  dead,  I  do  indeed.” 

“  Possibly  he  is,”  returned  the  other.  “  I  should 
think  if  he  were  living,  he  would  have  heard  you  by 
this  time.” 

“  In  his  fits  of  laziness,  he  sleeps  so  desperate 
hard,”  said  the  distracted  host,  “  that  if  you  were  to 
fire  off  cannon-balls  into  his  ears,  it  wouldn’t  wake 
him,  sir.” 

The  guest  made  no  remark  upon  this  novel  cure 
for  drowsiness,  and  recipe  for  making  people  lively, 
but,  with  his  hands  clasped  behind  him,  stood  in 
the  porch  very  much  amused  to  see  old  John,  with 
the  bridle  in  his  hand,  wavering  between  a  strong- 
impulse  to  abandon  the  animal  to  his  fate,  and  a 
half  disposition  to  lead  him  into  the  house,  and  shut 
him  up  in  the  parlor,  while  he  waited  on  his  master. 

“  Pillory  the  fellow,  here  he  is  at  last !”  cried  John, 
in  the  very  height  and  zenith  of  his  distress.  “  Did 
you  hear  me  a-calling,  villain?” 

The  figure  he  addressed  made  no  answer,  but  put¬ 
ting  his  hand  upon  the  saddle,  sprung  into  it  at  a 
bound,  turned  the  horse’s  head  toward  the  stable, 
and  was  gone  in  an  instant. 

“  Brisk  enough  when  he  is  awake,”  said  the  guest. 

“Brisk  enough,  sir!”  replied  John,  looking  at  the 
place  where  the  horse  had  been,  as  if  not  yet  un¬ 
derstanding  quite  what  had  become  of  him.  “  He 
melts,  I  think.  He  goes  like  a  drop  of  froth.  You 
look  at  him,  and  there  he  is.  You  look  at  him  again, 
and — there  he  isn’t.” 

Having,  in  the  absence  of  any  more  words,  put 
this  sudden  climax  to  what  he  had  faintly  intended 
should  be  a  long  explanation  of  the  whole  life  and 
character  of  his  man,  the  oracular  John  Willet  led 
the  gentleman  up  his  wide  dismantled  staircase  into 
the  Maypole’s  best  apartment. 

It  was  spacious  enough  in  all  conscience,  occupy¬ 
ing  the  whole  depth  of  the  house,  and  having  at  ei¬ 
ther  end  a  great  bay-window,  as  large  as  many  mod¬ 
ern  rooms ;  in  which  some  few  panes  of  stained  glass, 
emblazoned  with  fragments  of  armorial  bearings, 
though  cracked,  and  patched,  and  shattered,  yet  re¬ 
mained  ;  attesting,,  by  their  presence,  that  the  for¬ 
mer  owner  had  made  the  very  light  subservient  to  his 
state,  and  pressed  the  sun  itself  into  his  list  of  flat¬ 
terers  ;  bidding  it,  when  it  shone  into  his  chamber, 
reflect  the  badges  of  his  ancient  family,  and  take 
new  hues  and  colors  from  their  pride. 

But  those  were  old  days,  and  now  every  little  ray 
came  and  went  as  it  would ;  telling  the  plain,  bare, 
searching  truth.  Although  the  best  room  of  the 
inn,  it  had  the  melancholy  aspect  of  grandeur  in  de¬ 
cay,  and  was  much  too  vast  for  comfort.  Rich  rus¬ 
tling  hangings,  waving  on  the  walls ;  and,  better  far, 


38 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


the  rustling  of  youth  aud  beauty’s  dress ;  the  light 
of  women’s  eyes,  outshining  the  tapers  and  their  own 
rich  jewels ;  the  sound  of  gentle  tongues,  and  music, 
and  the  tread  of  maiden  feet,  had  once  been  there, 
aud  filled  it  with  delight.  But  they  were  gone,  and 
with  them  all  its  gladness.  It  was  no  longer  a 
home ;  children  were  never  born  and  bred  there ; 
the  fireside  had  become  mercenary — a  something  to 


chairs  and  tables  had  been  planted  on  a  square  of 
carpet,  flanked  by  a  ghostly  screen,  enriched  with 
figures,  grinning  aud  grotesque.  After  lighting  with 
his  own  hands  the  fagots  which  were  heaped  upon 
the  hearth,  old  John  withdrew  to  hold  grave  coun¬ 
cil  with  his  cook,  touching  the  stranger’s  entertain¬ 
ment  ;  while  the  guest  himself,  seeing  small  comfort 
in  the  yet  unkindled  wood,  opened  a  lattice  in  the 


“he  MELTS,  X  THINK.  HE  GOES  LIKE  A  DROI*  OF  FKOTH.  YOU  LOOK  AT  HIM,  AND  THERE  HE  IS.  YOU  LOOK  AT  HIM  AGAIN,  AND— THEIiE 

HE  ISN’T.” 


be  bought  aud  sold  —  a  very  courtezan:  let  who 
would  die,  or  sit  beside,  or  leave  it,  it  was  still  the 
same — it  missed  nobody,  cared  for  nobody,  had  equal 
warmth  and  smiles  for  all.  God  help  the  man  whose 
heart  ever  changes  with  the  world,  as  an  old  man¬ 
sion  when  it  becomes  an  inn ! 

No  effort  had  been  made  to  furnish  this  chilly 
waste,  but  before  the  broad  chimney  a  colony  of 


distant  window,  and  basked  in  a  sickly  gleam  of 
cold  March  sun. 

Leaving  the  window  now  and  then,  to  rake  the 
crackling  logs  together,  or  pace  the  echoing  room 
from  end  to  end,  he  closed  it  when  the  fire  was  quite 
burned  up,  and  having  wheeled  the  easiest  chair  into 
the  warmest  corner,  summoned  John  Willet. 

“  Sir,”  said  John. 


THE  MAYPOLE'S  MESSENGER. 


39 


He  wanted  pen,  ink,  and  paper.  There  was  an 
old  standish  on  the  high  mantel-shelf  containing  a 
dusty  apology  for  all  three.  Having  set  this  before 
him,  the  landlord  was  retiring,  when  he  motioned 
him  to  stay. 

“  There’s  a  house  not  far  from  here,”  said  the 
guest  when  he  had  written  a  few  lines,  “  which  you 
call  the  Warren,  I  believe  ?” 

As  this  was  said  in  the  tone  of  one  who  knew  the 
fact,  and  asked  the  question  as  a  thing  of  course, 
John  contented  himself  with  nodding  his  head  in 
the  affirmative ;  at  the  same  time  taking  one  hand 
out  of  his  pockets  to  cough  behind,  and  then  putting 
it  in  again. 

“I  want  this  note” — said  the  guest,  glancing  on 
what  he  had  written,  and  folding  it,  “  conveyed 
there  without  loss  of  time,  and  an  answer  brought 
back  here.  Have  you  a  messenger  at  hand  ?” 

John  was  thoughtful  for  a  minute  or  thereabouts, 
and  then  said  Yes. 

“  Let  me  see  him,”  said  the  guest. 

This  was  disconcerting;  for  Joe  being  out,  and 
Hugh  engaged  in  rubbing  down  the  chestnut  cob, 
he  designed  sending  on  the  errand,  Barnaby,  who 
had  just  then  arrived  in  one  of  his  rambles,  and 
who,  so  that  he  thought  himself  employed  on  a 
grave  and  serious  business,  would  go  anywhere. 

“  Why,  the  truth  is,”  said  John,  after  a  long  pause, 
“  that  the  j)erson  who’d  go  quickest,  is  a  sort  of  nat¬ 
ural,  as  one  may  say,  sir ;  and  though  quick  of  foot, 
and  as  much  to  be  trusted  as  the  post  itself,  he’s  not 
good  at  talking,  being  touched  and  flighty,  sir.” 

“You  don’t,”  said  the  guestf raising  his  eyes  to 
John’s  fat  face,  “you  don’t  mean — what’s  the  fel¬ 
low’s  name — you  don’t  mean  Barnaby  ?” 

“Yes  I  do,”  returned  the  landlord,  his  features 
turning  quite  expressive  with  surprise. 

“  How  comes  he  to  be  here  ?”  inquired  the  guest, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair ;  speaking  in  the  bland, 
e^en  tone,  from  which  he  never  varied ;  and  with 
the  same  soft,  courteous,  never-changing  smile  upon 
his  face.  “  I  saw  him  in  London  last  night.” 

“  He’s  forever,  here  one  hour,  and  there  the  next,” 
returned  old  John,  after  the  usual  pause  to  get  the 
question  in  his  mind.  “Sometimes  he  walks,  and 
sometimes  runs.  He’s  known  along  the  road  by 
every  body,  and  sometimes  comes  here  in  a  cart  or 
chaise,  and  sometimes  riding  double.  He  comes  and 
goes,  through  wind,  rain,  snow,  and  hail,  and  on  the 
darkest  nights.  Nothing  hurts  Mm .” 

“He  goes  often  to  the  Warren,  does  he  not?”  said 
the  guest,  carelessly.  “I  seem  to  remember  his 
mother  telling  me  something  to  that  effect  yester¬ 
day.  But  I  was  not  attending  to  the  good  woman 
much.” 

“You’re  right,  sir,”  John  made  answer,  “he  does. 
His  father,  sir,  was  murdered  in  that  house.” 

“  So  I  have  heard,”  returned  the  guest,  taking  a 
gold  tooth-pick  from  his  pocket  with  the  same  sweet 
smile.  “A  very  disagreeable  circumstance  for  the 
family.” 

“  Very,”  said  John  with  a  puzzled  look,  as  if  it  oc¬ 
curred  to  him,  dimly  and  afar  off,  that  this  might 
by  possibility  be  a  cool  way  of  treating  the  subject. 

“All  the  circumstances  after  a  murder,”  said  the 
guest,  soliloquizing,  “must be  dreadfully  unpleasant 


— so  much  bustle  and  disturbance — no  repose — a 
constant  dwelling  upon  one  subject — and  the  run¬ 
ning  in  and  out,  and  up  and  down  stairs,  intolerable. 
I  wouldn’t  have  such  a  thing  happen  to  any  body  I 
was  nearly  interested  in,  on  any  account.  ’Twould 
be  enough  to  wear  one’s  life  out. — You  were  going 
to  say,  friend — ”  he  added,  turning  to  John  again. 

“  Only  that  Mrs.  Rudge  lives  on  a  little  pension 
from  the  family,  and  that  Barnaby’s  as  free  of  the 
house  as  any  cat  or  dog  about  it,”  answered  John. 
“  Shall  he  do  your  errand,  sir  ?” 

“  Oh  yes,”  replied  the  guest.  “  Oh  certainly.  Let 
him  do  it  by  all  means.  Please  to  bring  him  here 
that  I  may  charge  him  to  be  quick.  If  he  objects 
to  come  you  may  tell  him  it’s  Mr.  Chester.  He  will 
remember  my  name,  I  dare  say.” 

John  was  so  very  much  astonished  to  find  who 
his  visitor  was,  that  he  could  express  no  astonish¬ 
ment  at  all,  by  looks  or  otherwise,  but  left  the  room 
as  if  he  were  in  the  most  placid  and  imperturbable 
of  all  possible  conditions.  It  has  been  reported  that 
when  he  got  down  stairs,  he  looked  steadily  at  the 
boiler  for  ten  minutes  by  the  clock,  and  all  that  time 
never  once  left  off  shaking  his  head ;  for  which  state¬ 
ment  there  would  seem  to  be  some  ground  of  truth 
and  feasibility,  inasmuch  as  that  interval  of  time 
did  certainly  elapse  before  he  returned  with  Barnaby 
to  the  guest’s  apartment. 

“  Come  hither  lad,”  said  Mr.  Chester.  “  You  know 
Mr.  Geoffrey  Haredale  ?” 

Barnaby  laughed,  and  looked  at  the  landlord  as 
though  he  would  say,  “  You  hear  him  ?”  John,  who 
was  greatly  shocked  at  this  breach  of  decorum,  clap¬ 
ped  his  finger  to  his  nose,  and  shook  his  head  in 
mute  remonstrance. 

“  He  knows  him,  sir,”  said  John,  frowning  aside 
at  Barnaby,  “  as  well  as  you  or  I  do.” 

“I  haven’t  the  pleasure  of  much  acquaintance 
with  the  gentleman,”  returned  his  guest.  “  You 
may  have.  Limit  the  comparison  to  yourself,  my 
friend.” 

Although  this  was  said  with  the  same  easy  affa¬ 
bility,  and  the  same  smile,  John  felt  himself  put 
down,  and  laying  the  indignity  at  Barnaby’s  door, 
determined  to  kick  his  raven,  on  the  very  first  op¬ 
portunity. 

“  Give  that,”  said  the  guest,  who  had  by  this  time 
sealed  the  note,  and  who  beckoned  his  messenger 
toward  him  as  he  spoke,  “  into  Mr.  Haredale’s  own 
hands.  Wait  for  an  answer,  and  bring  it  back  to 
me — here.  If  you  should  find  that  Mr.  Haredale  is 
engaged  just  now,  tell  him — can  he  remember  a  mes¬ 
sage,  landlord  ?” 

“  When  he  chooses,  sir  ?”  replied  John.  “  He 
won’t  forget  this  one.” 

“  How  are  you  sure  of  that  ?” 

John  merely  pointed  to  him  as  he  stood  with  his 
head  bent  forward,  and  his  earnest  gaze  fixed  closely 
on  his  questioner’s  face ;  and  nodded  sagely. 

“Tell  him,  then,  Barnaby,  should  he  be  engaged,” 
said  Mr.  Chester,  “that  I  shall  be  glad  to  wait  his 
convenience  here,  and  to  see  him  (if  he  will  call)  at 
any  time  this  eveniug. — At  the  worst  I  can  have  a 
bed  here,  Willet,  I  suppose  ?” 

Old  John,  immensely  flattered  by  the  personal  no¬ 
toriety  implied  in  this  familiar  form  of  address,  an- 


40 


BAEXABY  BUDGE. 


swered,  with  something  like  a  knowing  look,  “  I 
should  believe  you  could,  sir/7  and  was  turning  over 
in  his  mind  various  forms  of  eulogium,  with  the  view 
of  selecting  one  appropriate  to  the  qualities  of  his 
best  bed,  when  his  ideas  were  put  to  flight  by  Mr. 
Chester  giving  Barnaby  the  letter,  aud  bidding  him 
make  all  speed  away. 

“  Speed !”  said  Barnaby,  folding  the  little  packet 
in  his  breast,  “  Speed !  If  you  want  to  see  hurry  and 
mystery,  come  here.  Here  I77 

With  that,  he  put  his  hand,  very  much  to  John 
Willet’s  horror,  on  the  guest’s  fine  broadcloth  sleeve, 
and  led  him  stealthily  to  the  back  window. 

“  Look  down  there,77  he  said,  softly ;  “  do  you  mark 
how  they  whisper  in  each  other’s  ears ;  then  dance 
and  leap,  to  make  believe  they  are  in  sport  ?  Do  you 
see  how  they  stop  for  a  moment,  when  they  think 
there  is  no  one  looking,  and  mutter  among  them¬ 
selves  again ;  and  then  how  they  roll  and  gambol, 
delighted  with  the  mischief  they’ve  been  plotting  ? 
Look  at  ’em  now.  See  how  they  whirl  and  plunge. 
And  now  they  stop  again,  and  whisper,  cautiously 
together  —  little  thinking,  mind,  how  often  I  have 
lain  upon  the  grass  and  watched  them.  I  say — what 
is  it  that  they  plot  and  hatch  ?  Do  you  know  ?” 

“  They  are  only  clothes,”  returned  the  guest,  “  such 
as  we  wear ;  hanging  on  those  lines  to  dry,  and  flut¬ 
tering  in  the  wind.” 

“Clothes!”  echoed  Barnaby,  looking  close  into  his 
face,  and  falling  quickly  back.  “Ha,  ha!  Why, 
how  much  better  to  be  silly,  than  as  wise  as  you ! 
You  don’t  see  shadowy  people  there,  like  those  that 
live  in  sleep — not  you.  Nor  eyes  in  the  knotted 
panes  of  glass,  nor  swift  ghosts  when  it  blows  hard, 
nor  do  you  hear  voices  in  the  air,  nor  see  men  stalk¬ 
ing  in  the  sky — not  you  !  I  lead  a  merrier  life  than 
you,  with  all  your  cleverness.  You’re  the  dull  men. 
We’re  the  bright  ones.  Ha,  ha!  I’ll  not  change 
with  you,  clever  as  you  are — not  I !” 

With  that,  he  waved  his  hat  above  his  head,  and 
darted  off. 

“A  strange  creature,  upon  my  word!”  said  the 
guest,  pulling  out  a  handsome  box,  and  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff. 

“  He  wants  imagination,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  very 
slowly,  and  after  a  long  silence ;  “  that’s  what  he 
wants.  I’ve  tried  to  instill  it  into  him,  many  and 
many’s  the  time ;  but  ” — John  added  this  in  confi¬ 
dence — “  he  an’t  made  for  it ;  that’s  the  fact.” 

To  record  that  Mr.  Chester  smiled  at  John’s  remark 
would  be  little  to  the  purpose,  for  he  preserved  the 
same  conciliatory  and  pleasant  look  at  all  times.  He 
drew  his  chair  nearer  to  the  fire  though,  as  a  kind 
of  hint  that  he  would  prefer  to  be  alone,  and  John, 
having  no  reasonable  excuse  for  remaining,  left  him 
to  himself. 

Very  thoughtful  old  John  Willet  was,  while  the 
dinner  was  preparing ;  and  if  his  brain  were  ever 
less  clear  at  one  time  than  another,  it  is  but  reason¬ 
able  to  suppose  that  he  addled  it  in  no  slight  degree 
by  shaking  his  head  so  much  that  day.  That  Mr. 
Chester,  between  whom  and  Mr.  Haredale,  it  was  no¬ 
torious  to  all  the  neighborhood,  a  deep  and  bitter 
animosity  existed,  should  come  down  there  for  the 
sole  purpose,  as  it  seemed,  of  seeing  him,  and  should 
choose  the  Maypole  for  their  place  of  meeting,  and 


should  send  to  him  express,  were  stumbling-blocks 
John  could  not  overcome.  The  only  resource  he  had, 
was  to  consult  the  boiler,  and  wait  impatiently  for 
Barnaby’s  return. 

But  Barnaby  delayed  beyond  all  precedent.  The 
visitor’s  dinner  was  served,  removed,  his  wine  was 
set,  the  fire  replenished,  the  hearth  clean  swept ;  the 
light  waned  without,  it  grew  dusk,  became  quite 
dark,  and  still  no  Barnaby  appeared.  Yet,  though 
John  Willet  was  full  of  wonder  and  misgiving,  his 
guest  sat  cross-legged  in  the  easy-chair,  to  all  ap¬ 
pearance  as  little  ruffled  in  his  thoughts  as  in  his 
dress — the  same  calm,  easy,  cool  gentleman,  without 
a  care  or  thought  beyond  his  golden  tooth-pick. 

“  Barnaby’s  late,”  John  ventured  to  observe,  as  he 
placed  a  pair  of  tarnished  candlesticks,  some  three 
feet  high,  upon  the  table,  and  snuffed  the  lights  they 
held. 

“  He  is  rather  so,”  replied  the  guest,  sipping  his 
wine.  “  He  will  not  be  much  longer,  I  dare  say.” 

J ohn  coughed  and  raked  the  fire  together. 

“  As  your  roads  bear  no  very  good  character,  if  I 
may  judge  from  my  son’s  mishap,  though,”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  “  and  as  I  have  no  fancy  to  be  knocked  on 
the  head — which  is  not  only  disconcerting  at  the 
moment,  but  places  one,  besides,  in  a  ridiculous  po¬ 
sition  with  respect  to  the  people  who  chance  to  pick 
one  up — I  shall  stop  here  to-night.  I  think  you  said 
you  had  a  bed  to  spare.” 

“Such  a  bed,  sir,”  returned  John  Willet;  “ay, 
such  a  bed  as  few,  even  of  the  gentry’s  houses,  own. 
A  fixter  here,  sir.  I’ve  heard  say  that  bedstead  is 
nigh  two  hundred  ^ars  of  age.  Your  noble  son — a 
fine  young  gentleman  —  slept  in  it  last,  sir,  half  a 
year  ago.” 

“  Upon  my  life,  a  recommendation !”  said  the  guest, 
shrugging  his  shoulders  and  wheeling  his  chair  near¬ 
er  to  the  fire.  See  that  it  be  well  aired,  Mr.  Willet, 
aud  let  a  blazing  fire  be  lighted  there  at  once.  This 
house  is  something  damp  and  chilly.” 

John  raked  the  fagots  up  again,  more  from  habit 
than  x>resence  of  mind,  or  any  reference  to  this  re¬ 
mark,  and  was  about  to  withdraw,  when  a  bounding 
step  was  heard  upon  the  stair,  and  Barnaby  came 
panting  in. 

“He’ll  have  his  foot  in  the  stirrup  in  an  hour’s 
time,”  he  cried,  advancing.  “  He  has  been  riding 
hard  all  day — has  just  come  home — but  will  be  in 
the  saddle  again  as  soon  as  he  has  eat  and  drank,  to 
meet  his  loving  friend.” 

“  Was  that  his  message?”  asked  the  visitor,  look¬ 
ing  up,  but  without  the  smallest  discomposure — or 
at  least  without  the  show  of  any. 

“All  but  the  last  words,”  Barnaby  rejoined.  “  He 
meant  those.  I  saw  that  in  his  face.” 

“  This  for  your  pains,”  said  the  other,  putting 
money  in  his  hand,  and  glancing  at  him  steadfastly. 
“This  for  your  pains,  sharp  Barnaby.” 

“  For  Grip,  and  me,  aud  Hugh,  to  share  among  us,” 
he  rejoined,  putting  it  up,  and  nodding,  as  he  count¬ 
ed  it  on  his  fingers.  “  Grip  one,  me  two,  Hugh  three ; 
the  dog,  the  goat,  the  cats — well,  we  shall  spend  it 
pretty  soon,  I  warn  you.  Stay. — Look.  Do  you  wise 
men  see  nothing  there,  now?” 

He  bent  eagerly  down  on  one  knee,  and  gazed  in¬ 
tently  at  the  smoke,  which  was  rolling  up  the  chim- 


HUGH. 


41 


ney  in  a  thick  black  cloud.  John  Willet,  who  ap¬ 
peared  to  consider  himself  particularly  and  chiefly 
referred  to  under  the  term  wise  men,  looked  that 
way  likewise,  and  with  great  solidity  of  feature. 

“  Now,  where  do  they  go  to,  when  they  spring  so 
fast  up  there,”  asked  Barnaby ;  “  eh  ?  Why  do  they 
tread  so  closely  on  each  other’s  heels,  and  why  are 
they  always  in  a  hurry — which  is  what  you  blame 
me  for,  when  I  only  take  pattern  by  these  busy  folk 
about  me.  More  of  ’em!  catching  to  each  other’s 
skirts  ;  and  as  fast  as  they  go,  others  come !  What 
a  merry  dance  it  is !  I  would  that  Grip  and  I  could 
frisk  like  that !” 

“  What  has  he  in  that  basket  at  his  back  ?”  asked 
the  guest  after  a  few  moments,  during  which  Bar- 
naby  was  still  bendiug  down  to  look  higher  up  the 
chimney,  and  earnestly  watching  the  smoke. 

“In  this?”  he  answered,  jumping  up,  before  John 
Willet  could  reply  —  shaking  it  as  he  spoke,  aud 
stooping  his  head  to  listen.  “In  this!  What  is 
there  here  ?  Tell  him  !” 

“  A  devil,  a  devil,  a  devil !”  cried  a  hoarse  voice. 

“Here’s  money?”  said  Barnaby,  chinking  it  in  his 
hand,  “  money  for  a  treat,  Grip !” 

“Hurra!  Hurra!  Hurra!”  replied  the  raven, 
“  keep  up  your  spirits.  Never  say  die.  Bow,  wow, 
wow !” 

Mr.  Willet,  who  appeared  to  entertain  strong 
doubts  whether  a  customer  in  a  laced  coat  and  tine 
linen  could  be  supposed  to  have  any  acquaintance 
even  with  the  existence  of  such  unpolite  gentry  as 
the  bird  claimed  to  belong  to,  took  Barnaby  off  at 
this  juncture,  with  the  view  of  preventing  any  other 
improper  declarations,  and  quitted  the  room  with 
his  very  best  bow. 

- * - 

CHAPTER  XI. 

rilHERE  was  great  news  that  night  for  the  regu- 
_L  lar  Maypole  customers,  to  each  of  whom,  as  he 
straggled  in  to  occupy  his  allotted  seat  in  the  chim¬ 
ney-corner,  John,  with  a  most  impressive  slowness 
of  delivery,  and  in  an  apoplectic  whisper,  communi¬ 
cated  the  fact  that  Mr.  Chester  was  alone  in  the 
large  room  up  stairs,  aud  was  waiting  the  arrival 
of  Mr.  Geoffrey  Haredale,  to  whom  he  had  sent  a  let¬ 
ter  (doubtless  of  a  threatening  nature)  by  the  hands 
of  Barnaby,  then  and  there  present. 

For  a  little  knot  of  smokers  and  solemn  gossips, 
who  had  seldom  any  new  topics  of  discussion,  this 
was  a  perfect  Godsend.  Here  was  a  good,  dark¬ 
looking  mystery  progressing  under  that  very  roof- 
brought  home  to  the  fireside,  as  it  were,  aud  enjoy¬ 
able  without  the  smallest  pains  or  trouble.  It  is 
extraordinary  what  a  zest  and  relish  it  gave  to  the 
drink,  and  how  it  heightened  the  flavor  of  the  to¬ 
bacco.  Every  man  smoked  his  pipe  with  a  face  of 
grave  and  serious  delight,  and  looked  at  his  neigh¬ 
bor  with  a  sort  of  quiet  congratulation.  Nay,  it 
was  felt  to  be  such  a  holiday  and  special  night,  that, 
on  the  motion  of  little  Solomon  Daisy,  every  man 
(including  John  himself)  put  down  his  sixpence  for 
a  can  of  flip,  which  grateful  beverage  was  brewed 
with  all  dispatch,  and  set  down  in  the  midst  of 
them  on  the  brick  floor ;  both  that  it  might  simmer 


and  stew  before  the  fire,  and  that  its  fragrant  steam, 
rising  up  among  them,  and  mixing  with  the  wreaths 
of  vapor  from  their  pipes,  might  shroud  them  in  a 
delicious  atmosphere  of  their  own,  and  shut  out  all 
the  world.  The  very  furniture  of  the  room  seemed 
to  mellow  and  deepen  in  its  tone ;  the  ceiling  and 
walls  looked  blacker  and  more  highly  polished,  the 
curtains  of  a  ruddier  red ;  the  fire  burned  clear  and 
high,  and  the  crickets  in  the  hearth-stone  chirped 
with  a  more  than  wonted  satisfaction. 

There  were  present  two,  however,  who  showed 
but  little  interest  in  the  general  contentment.  Of 
these,  one  was  Barnaby  himself,  who  slept,  or,  to 
avoid  being  beset  with  questions,  feigned  to  sleep, 
in  the  chimney-corner ;  the  other,  Hugh,  who,  sleep¬ 
ing  too,  lay  stretched  upon  the  bench  on  the  oppo¬ 
site  side,  in  the  full  glare  of  the  blazing  fire. 

The  light  that  fell  upon  this  slumbering  form, 
showed  it  in  all  its  muscular  aud  handsome  propor¬ 
tions.  It  was  that  of  a  young  man,  of  a  hale, 
athletic  figure,  and  a  giant’s  strength,  whose  sun¬ 
burned  face  and  swarthy  throat,  overgrown  with  jet 
black  hair,  might  have  served  a  painter  for  a  model. 
Loosely  attired,  in  the  coarsest  and  roughest  garb, 
with  scraps  of  straw  and  hay — his  usual  bed — cling¬ 
ing  here  and  there,  and  mingling  with  his  uncombed 
locks,  he  had  fallen  asleep  in  a  posture  as  careless  as 
his  dress.  The  negligence  and  disorder  of  the  whole 
man,  with  something  fierce  and  sullen  in  his  features, 
gave  him  a  picturesque  appearance,  that  attracted 
the  regards  even  of  the  Maypole  customers  who  knew 
him  well,  and  caused  Long  Parkes  to  say  that  Hugh 
looked  more  like  a  poaching  rascal  to-night  than 
ever  he  had  seen  him  yet. 

“He’s  waiting  here,  I  suppose,”  said  Solomon,  “to 
take  Mr.  Haredale’s  horse.” 

“That’s  it,  sir,”  replied  John  Willet.  “He’s  not 
often  in  the  house,  you  know.  He’s  more  at  his  ease 
among  horses  than  men.  I  look  upon  him  as  a  ani¬ 
mal  himself.” 

Following  up  this  opinion  with  a  shrug  that  seem¬ 
ed  meant  to  say,  “  we  can’t  expect  every  body  to  be 
like  us,”  John  put  his  pipe  into  his  mouth  again, 
and  smoked  like  one  who  felt  his  superiority  over 
the  general  run  of  mankind. 

“That  chap,  sir,”  said  John,  taking  it  out  again 
after  a  time,  and  pointing  at  him  with  the  stem, 
“though  he’s  got  all  his  faculties  about  him — bot¬ 
tled  up  and  corked  down,  if  I  may  say  so,  some- 
wheres  or  another — ” 

“  Very  good !”  said  Parkes,  nodding  his  head.  “  A 
very  good  expression,  Johnny.  You’ll  be  a  tackling 
somebody  presently.  You’re  in  twig  to-night,  I  see.” 

“Take  care,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  not  at  all  grateful 
for  the  compliment,  “that  I  don’t  tackle  you,  sir, 
which  I  shall  certainly  endeavor  to  do,  if  you  inter¬ 
rupt  me  when  I’m  making  observations. — That  chap, 
I  was  a  saying,  though  he  has  all  his  faculties  about 
him,  somewheres  or  another,  bottled  up  and  corked 
down,  has  no  more  imagination  than  Barnaby  has. 
And  why  hasn’t  he  ?” 

The  three  friends  shook  their  heads  at  each  other ; 
saying  by  that  action,  without  the  trouble  of  open¬ 
ing  their  lips,  “Do  you  observe  what  a  philosophical 
mind  our  friend  has  ?” 

“  Why  hasn’t  he  ?”  said  John,  gently  striking  the 


42 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


table  with  his  open  hand.  “  Because  they  was  nev¬ 
er  drawed  out  of  him  when  he  was  a  boy.  That’s 
why.  What  would  any  of  us  have  been,  if  our  fa¬ 
thers  hadn’t  drawed  our  faculties  out  of  us  ?  What 
would  my  boy  Joe  have  been,  if  I  hadn’t  drawed  his 
faculties  out  of  him  ? — Do  you  mind  what  I’m  a  say- 
iug  of,  gentlemen  ?” 

“Ah!  we  mind  you,”  cried  Parkes.  “Go  on  im¬ 
proving  of  us,  Johnny.” 

“  Consequently,  then,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  “that  chap, 
whose  mother  was  huug  when  he  was  a  little  boy, 
along  with  six  others,  for  passing  bad  notes — and  it’s 
a  blessed  thing  to  think  how  many  people  are  hung 
in  batches  every  six  weeks  for  that,  and  such  like 
offenses,  as  showing  how  wide  awake  our  govern¬ 
ment  is — that  chap  was  then  turned  loose,  and  had 
to  mind  cows,  and  frighten  birds  away,  and  what 
not,  for  a  few  pence  to  live  on,  and  so  got  on  by  de¬ 
grees  to  mind  horses,  and  to  sleep  in  course  of  time 
in  lofts  and  litter,  instead  of  under  hay-stacks  and 
hedges,  till  at  last  he  come  to  be  hostler  at  the  May- 
pole  for  his  board  and  lodging  and  a  annual  trifle — 
that  chap  that  can’t  read  nor  write,  and  has  never 
had  much  to  do  with  any  thing  but  animals,  and  has 
never  lived  in  any  way  but  like  the  animals  he  has 
lived  among,  is  a  animal.  And,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  ar¬ 
riving  at  his  logical  conclusion,  “  is  to  be  treated  ac¬ 
cordingly.” 

“  Willet,”  said  Solomon  Daisy,  who  had  exhibited 
some  impatience  at  the  intrusion  of  so  unworthy  a 
subject  on  their  more  interesting  theme,  “  when  Mr. 
Chester  come  this  morning,  did  he  order  the  large 
room  ?” 

“He  signified,  sir,”  said  John,  “that  he  wanted  a 
large  apartment.  Yes.  Certainly.” 

“  Why,  then,  I’ll  tell  you  what,”  said  Solomon, 
speaking  softly  and  with  an  earnest  look.  “  He  and 
Mr.  Haredale  are  going  to  fight  a  duel  in  it.” 

Every  body  looked  at  Mr.  Willet,  after  this  alarm¬ 
ing  suggestion.  Mr.  Willet  looked  at  the  fire,  weigh¬ 
ing  in  his  own  mind  the  effect  which  such  an  occur¬ 
rence  would  be  likely  to  have  on  the  establishment. 

“Well,”  said  John,  “I  don’t  know — I  am  sure — I 
remember  that  when  I  went  up  last,  he  had  put  the 
lights  upon  the  mantel-shelf.” 

“  It’s  as  plain,”  returned  Solomon,  “  as  the  nose  on 
Parkes’s  face” — Mr. Parkes,  who  had  a  large  nose, 
rubbed  it,  and  looked  as  if  he  considered  this  a  per¬ 
sonal  allusion  —  “they’ll  fight  in  that  room.  You 
know  by  the  newspapers  what  a  common  thing  it  is 
for  gentlemen  to  fight  in  coffee-houses  w  ithout  sec¬ 
onds.  One  of  ’em  will  be  wounded  or  perhaps  killed 
in  this  house.” 

#  “  That  was  a  challenge  that  Barnaby  took  then, 
eh  ?”  said  John. 

“  — Inclosing  a  slip  of  paper  with  the  measure  of 
his  sword  upon  it,  I’ll  bet  a  guinea,”  answered  the 
little  man.  “  We  know  what  sort  of  gentleman  Mr. 
Haredale  is.  You  have  told  us  what  Barnaby  said 
about  his  looks,  when  he  came  back.  Depend  upon 
it,  I’m  right.  Now,  mind.” 

The  flip  had  had  no  flavor  till  now.  The  tobacco 
had  been  of  mere  English  growth,  compared  with  its 
present  taste.  A  duel  in  that  great  old  rambling 
room  up  stairs,  and  the  best  bed  ordered  already  for 
the  wounded  man ! 


“  Would  it  be  swords  or  pistols,  now7  ?”  said  John. 

“  Heaven  knows.  Perhaps  both,”  returned  Solo¬ 
mon.  “  The  gentlemen  wear  swords,  and  may  easi¬ 
ly  have  pistols  in  their  pockets — most  likely  have, 
indeed.  If  they  fire  at  each  other  without  effect, 
then  they’ll  draw,  and  go  to  wrork  in  earnest.” 

A  shade  passed  over  Mr.  Willet’s  face  as  he  thought 
of  broken  windows  and  disabled  furniture,  but  be¬ 
thinking  himself  that  one  of  the  parties  would  prob¬ 
ably  be  left  alive  to  pay  the  damage,  he  brightened 
up  again. 

“And  then,”  said  Solomon,  looking  from  face  to 
face,  “  then  we  shall  have  one  of  those  stains  upon 
the  floor  that  never  come  out.  If  Mr.  Haredale  wins, 
depend  upon  it,  it’ll  be  a  deep  one  ;  or  if  he  loses,  it 
will  perhaps  be  deeper  still,  for  he’ll  never  give  in 
unless  he’s  beaten  down.  We  know  him  better, eh?” 

“  Better  indeed !”  they  whispered  all  together. 

“As  to  its  ever  being  got  out  again,”  said  Solo¬ 
mon,  “  I  tell  you  it  never  will,  or  can  be.  Why,  do 
yon  know  that  it  has  been  tried,  at  a  certain  house 
we  are  acquainted  with  ?” 

“  The  Warren !”  cried  John.  “  No,  sure !” 

“Yes,  sure — yes.  It’s  only  known  by  very  few.  It 
has  been  whispered  about  though  for  all  that.  They 
planed  the  board  away,  but  there  it  was.  They 
went  deep,  but  it  went  deeper.  They  put  new  boards 
down,  but  there  was  one  great  spot  that  came  through 
still,  and  showed  itself  in  the  old  place.  And — hark- 
ye — draw  nearer — Mr.  Geoffrey  made  that  room  his 
study,  and  sits  there,  always,  with  his  foot  (as  I  have 
heard)  upon  it ;  and  he  believes,  through  thinking 
of  it  long  and  very  much,  that  it  will  never  fade  un¬ 
til  he  finds  the  man  who  did  the  deed.” 

As  this  recital  ended,  and  they  all  drew  closer 
round  the  fire,  the  tramp  of  a  horse  was  heard  with¬ 
out. 

“  The  very  man !”  cried  John,  starting  up.  “  Hugh ! 
Hugh !” 

The  sleeper  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  hurried  af¬ 
ter  him.  John  quickly  returned,  ushering  in  with 
great  attention  and  deference  (for  Mr.  Haredale  was 
his  landlord)  the  long-expected  visitor,  who  strode 
into  the  room  clanking  his  heavy  boots  upon  the 
floor;  and  looking  keenly  round  upon  the  bowing 
group,  raised  his  hat  in  acknowledgment  of  their 
profound  respect. 

“You  have  a  stranger  here,  Willet,  who  sent  to 
me,”  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  sounded  naturally 
stern  and  deep.  “  Where  is  he  ?” 

“  In  the  great  room  up  stairs,  sir,”  answered  John. 

“  Show  the  way.  Your  staircase  is  dark,  I  know. 
Gentlemen,  good-night.” 

With  that,  he  signed  to  the  landlord  to  go  on  be¬ 
fore  ;  and  went  clanking  out,  and  up  the  stairs ;  old 
John,  in  his  agitation,  ingeniously  lighting  every 
thing  but  the  way,  and  making  a  stumble  at  every 
second  step. 

“  Stop !”  he  said,  when  they  reached  the  landing. 
“  I  can  announce  myself.  Don’t  wait.” 

He  laid  his  hand  upon  the  door,  entered,  and  shut 
it  heavily.  Mr.  Willet  was  by  no  means  disposed  to 
stand  there  listening  by  himself,  especially  as  the 
walls  were  very  thick ;  so  descended,  with  much 
greater  alacrity  than  he  had  come  up,  and  joined 
his  frieuds  below. 


MR.  HARE  DALE  AND  MR.  CHESTER. 


43 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THERE  was  a  brief  pause  in  the  state-room  of  the 
Maypole,  as  Mr.  Haredale  tried  the  lock  to  sat¬ 
isfy  himself  that  he  had  shut  the  door  securely,  and, 
striding  rip  the  dark  chamber  to  where  the  screen 
inclosed  a  little  patch  of  light  and  warmth,  present¬ 
ed  himself,  abruptly  and  in  silence,  before  the  smil¬ 
ing  guest. 

If  the  two  had  no  greater  sympathy  in  their  in¬ 
ward  thoughts  than  in  their  outward  bearing  and 
appearance,  the  meeting  did  not  seem  likely  to  prove 
a  very  calm  or  pleasant  one.  With  no  great  dis¬ 
parity  between  them  in  point  of  years,  they  were, 
in  every  other  respect,  as  unlike  and  far  removed 
from  each  other  as  two  men  could  well  be.  The 
one  was  soft-spoken,  delicately  made,  precise,* and 
elegant ;  the  other,  a  burly  square-built  man,  negli¬ 
gently  dressed,  rough  and  abrupt  in  manner,  stern, 
and,  in  his  present  mood,  forbidding  both  in  look 
and  speech.  The  one  preserved  a  calm  and  placid 
smile ;  the  other,  a  distrustful  frown.  The  new¬ 
comer,  indeed,  appeared  bent  on  showing  by  his  ev¬ 
ery  tone  and  gesture  his  determined  opposition  and 
hostility  to  the  man  he  had  come  to  meet.  The 
guest  who  received  him,  on  the  other  hand,  seemed 
to  feel  that  the  contrast  between  them  was  all  in 
his  favor,  and  to  derive  a  quiet  exultation  from  it 
which  put  him  more  at  his  ease  than  ever. 

“  Haredale,”  said  this  gentleman,  without  the  least 
appearance  of  embarrassment  or  reserve,  “  I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you.” 

“Let  us  dispense  with  compliments.  They  are 
misplaced  between  us,”  returned  the  other,  waving 
his  hand,  “and  say  plainly  what  we  have  to  say. 
You  have  asked  me  to  meet  you.  I  am  here.  Why 
do  we  stand  face  to  face  again  ?” 

“  Still  the  same  frank  and  sturdy  character,  I  see !” 
“  Good  or  bad,  sir,  I  am,”  returned  the  other,  lean¬ 
ing  his  arm  upon  the  chimney-piece,  and  turning  a 
haughty  look  upon  the  occupant  of  the  easy-chair, 
“  the  man  I  used  to  be.  I  have  lost  no  old  likings  or 
dislikings ;  my  memory  has  not  failed  me  by  a  hair’s- 
breadth.  Yon  ask  me  to  give  you  a  meeting.  I  say, 
I  am  here.” 

“  Our  meeting,  Haredale,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  tap¬ 
ping  his  snuff-box,  and  following  with  a  smile  the 
impatient  gesture  he  had  made — perhaps  uncon¬ 
sciously — toward  his  sword,  “is  one  of  conference 
and  peace,  I  hope  ?” 

“  I  have  come  here,”  returned  the  other,  “  at  your 
desire,  holding  myself  bound  to  meet  you,  when  and 
where  you  would.  I  have  not  come  to  bandy 
pleasant  speeches,  or  hollow  professions.  You  are  a 
smooth  man  of  the  world,  sir,  and  at  such  play  have 
me  at  a  disadvantage.  The  very  last  man  on  this 
earth  with  whom  I  would  enter  the  lists  to  combat 
with  gentle  compliments  and  masked  faces,  is  Mr. 
Chester,  I  do  assure  you.  I  am  not  his  match  at 
such  weapons,  and  have  reason  to  believe  that  few 
men  are.” 

“  You  do  me  a  great  deal  of  honor,  Haredale,”  re¬ 
turned  the  other,  most  composedly,  “  and  I  thank 
you.  I  will  be  frank  with  you — ” 

“  I  beg  your  pardon — will  be  what  ?” 

“  Frank — open — perfectly  candid.” 


“Ha!”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  drawing  his  breath. 
“  But  don’t  let  me  interrupt  you.” 

“  So  resolved  am  I  to  hold  this  course,”  returned 
the  other,  tasting  his  wine  with  great  deliberation, 
“that  I  have  determined  not  to  quarrel  with  you, 
and  not  to  be  betrayed  into  a  warm  expression  or  a 
hasty  word.” 

“There  again,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “you  have  me 
at  a  great  advantage.  Your  self-command — ” 

“  Is  not  to  be  disturbed,  when  it  will  serve  my 
purpose,  you  would  say” — rejoined  the  other,  inter¬ 
rupting  him  with  the  same  complacency.  “  Grant¬ 
ed.  I  allow  it.  And  I  have  a  purpose  to  serve  now. 
So  have  you.  I  am  sure  our  object  is  the  same.  Let 
us  attain  it  like  sensible  men,  who  have  ceased  to  be 
boys  some  time. — Do  you  drink  ?” 

“With  my  friends,”  returned  the  other. 

“At  least,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “you  will  be  seated  ?” 

“I  will  stand,”  returned  Mr.  Haredale  impatient¬ 
ly,  “on  this  dismantled  beggared  hearth,  and  not 
pollute  it,  fallen  as  it  is,  with  mockeries.  Go  on.” 

“  You  are  wrong,  Haredale,”  said  the  other,  cross¬ 
ing  his  legs,  and  smiling  as  he  held  his  glass  up  in 
the  bright  glow  of  the  fire.  “  Yon  are  really  very 
wrong.  The  world  is  a  lively  place  enough,  in  which 
we  must  accommodate  ourselves  to  circumstances, 
sail  with  the  stream  as  glibly  as  we  can,  be  content 
to  take  froth  for  substance,  the  surface  for  the  depth, 
the  counterfeit  for  the  real  coin.  I  wonder  no  phi¬ 
losopher  has  ever  established  that  our  globe  itself  is 
hollow.  It  should  be,  if  Nature  is  consistent  in  her 
works.” 

“  You  think  it  is,  perhaps  ?” 

“I  should  say,”  he  returned,  sipping  his  wine, 
“there  could  be  no  doubt  about  it.  Well;  we,  in 
trifling  with  this  jingling  toy,  have  had  the  ill-luck 
to  jostle  and  fall  out.  We  are  not  what  the  world 
calls  friends ;  but  we  are  as  good  and  true  and  lov¬ 
ing  friends  for  all  that,  as  nine  out  of  every  ten  of 
those  on  whom  it  bestows  the  title.  You  have  a 
niece,  and  I  a  son — a  fine  lad,  Haredale,  but  foolish. 
They  fall  in  love  with  each  other,  and  form  what 
this  same  world  calls  an  attachment;  meaning  a 
something  fanciful  and  false  like  the  rest,  which,  if 
it  took  its  own  free  time,  would  break  like  any  oth¬ 
er  bubble.  But  it  may  not  have  its  own  free  time 
— will  not,  if  they  are  left  alone — and  the  question 
is,  shall  we  two,  because  society  calls  us  enemies, 
stand  aloof,  and  let  them  rush  into  each  other’s  arms, 
when,  by  approaching  each  other  sensibly,  as  we  do 
now,  we  can  prevent  it,  and  part  them  ?” 

“  I  love  my  niece,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  after  a  short 
silence.  “  It  may  sound  strangely  in  your  ears ;  but 
I  love  her.” 

“  Strangely,  my  good  fellow !”  cried  Mr.  Chester, 
lazily  filling  his  glass  again,  and  pulling  out  his 
tooth-pick.  “  Not  at  all.  I  like  Ned  too — or,  as  you 
say,  love  him — that’s  the  word  among  such  near  re¬ 
lations.  I’m  very  fond  of  Ned.  He’s  an  amazingly 
good  fellow,  and  a  handsome  fellow — foolish  and 
weak  as  yet ;  that’s  all.  But  the  thing  is,  Haredale 
— for  I’ll  be  very  frank,  as  I  told  you  I  would  at  first 
— independently  of  any  dislike  that  you  and  I  might 
have  to  being  related  to  each  other,  and  independ¬ 
ently  of  the  religious  differences  between  us — and 
damn  it,  that’s  important — I  couldn’t  afford  a  match 


44 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


of  this  description.  Ned  and  I  couldn’t  do  it.  It’s 
impossible.” 

“  Curb  your  tongue,  in  God’s  name,  if  this  con¬ 
versation  is  to  last,”  retorted  Mr.  Haredale  fiercely. 
“  I  have  said  I  love  my  niece.  Do  you  think  that, 
loving  her,  I  would  have  her  fling  her  heart  away 
on  any  man  who  had  your  blood  in  his  veins  ?” 

“You  see,”  said  the  other,  not  at  all  disturbed, 
“the  advantage  of  being  so  frank  and  open.  Just 
what  I  was  about  to  add,  upon  my  honor !  I  am 
amazingly  attached  to  Ned — quite  dote  upon  him, 
indeed — and  even  if  we  could  afiord  to  throw  our¬ 
selves  away,  that  very  objection  would  be  quite  in¬ 
superable. — I  wish  you’d  take  some  wine.” 

“  Mark  me,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  striding  to  the  ta¬ 
ble,  and  laying  his  hand  upon  it  heavily.  “  If  any 
man  believes — presumes  to  think — that  I,  in  word 
or  deed,  or  in  the  wildest  dream,  ever  entertained  re¬ 
motely  the  idea  of  Emma  Haredale’s  favoring  the 
suit  of  any  one  who  was  akin  to  you — in  any  way 
— I  care  not  what — he  lies.  He  lies,  and  does  me 
grievous  wrong,  in  the  mere  thought.” 

“  Haredale,”  returned  the  other,  rocking  himself 
to  and  fro  as  in  assent,  and  nodding  at  the  fire,  “  it’s 
extremely  manly,  and  really  very  generous  in  you, 
to  meet  me  in  this  unreserved  and  handsome  way. 
Upon  my  word,  those  are  exactly  my  sentiments, 
only  expressed  with  much  more  force  and  power 
than  I  could  use — you  know  my  sluggish  nature, 
and  will  forgive  me,  I  am  sure.” 

“  While  I  would  restrain  her  from  all  correspond¬ 
ence  with  your  son,  and  sever  their  intercourse  here, 
though  it  should  cause  her  death,”  said  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  who  had  been  pacing  to  and  fro,  “  I  would  do 
it  kindly  and  tenderly  if  I  can.  I  have  a  trust  to 
discharge,  which  my  nature  is  not  formed  to  under¬ 
stand,  and,  for  this  reason,  the  bare  fact  of  there  be¬ 
ing  any  love  between  them  comes  upon  me  to-night, 
almost  for  the  first  time.” 

“I  am  more  delighted  than  I  can  possibly  tell 
you,”  rejoined  Mr.  Chester,  with  the  utmost  bland¬ 
ness,  “  to  find  my  own  impression  so  confirmed. 
You  see  the  advantage  of  our  having  met.  We  un¬ 
derstand  each  other.  We  quite  agree.  We  have  a 
most  complete  arid  thorough  explanation,  and  we 
know  what  course  to  take. — Why  don’t  you  taste 
your  tenant’s  wine  ?  It’s  really  very  good.” 

“  Pray  who,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  have  aided 
Emma,  or  your  son?  Who  are  their  go-betweens, 
and  agents — do  you  know  ?” 

“All  the  good  people  hereabouts — the  neighbor¬ 
hood  in  general,  I  think,”  returned  the  other,  with 
his  most  affable  smile.  “The  messenger  I  sent  to 
you  to-day,  foremost  among  them  all.” 

“  The  idiot  ?  Barnaby  ?” 

“  You  are  surprised  ?  Iam  glad  of  that,  for  I  was 
rather  so  myself.  Yes.  I  wrung  that  from  his  moth¬ 
er — a  very  decent  sort  of  woman — from  whom,  in¬ 
deed, *1  chiefly  learned  how  serious  the  matter  had 
become,  and  so  determined  to  ride  out  here  to-day, 
and  hold  a  parley  with  you  on  this  neutral  ground. 
— You’re  stouter  than  you  used  to  be,  Haredale,  but 
you  look  extremely  well.” 

“  Our  business,  I  presume,  is  nearly  at  an  end,” 
said  Mr.  Haredale,  with  an  expression  of  impatience 
he  was  at  no  pains  to  conceal.  “Trust  me,  Mr. 


Chester,  my  niece  shall  change  from  this  time.  I 
will  appeal,”  he  added,  in  a  lower  tone,  “  to  her  wom¬ 
an’s  heart,  her  dignity,  her  pride,  her  duty — ” 

“  I  shall  do  the  same  by  Ned,”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
restoring  some  errant  fagots  to  their  places  in  the 
grate  with  the  toe  of  his  boot.  “If  theVe  is  any 
thing  real  in  this  world,  it  is  those  amazingly  fine 
feelings  and  those  natural  obligations  which  must 
subsist  between  father  and  son.  I  shall  put  it  to 
him  on  every  ground  of  moral  and  religious  feeling. 
I  shall  represent  to  him  that  we  can  not  possibly  af¬ 
ford  it— that  I  have  always  looked  forward  to  his 
marrying  well,  for  a  genteel  provision  for  myself  in 
the  autumn  of  life — that  there  are  a  great  many 
clamorous  dogs  to  pay,  whose  claims  are  perfectly 
just  and  right,  and  who  must  be  paid  out  of  his 
wife*s  fortune.  In  short,  that  the  very  highest  and 
most  honorable  feelings  of  our  nature,  with  every 
consideration  of  filial  duty  and  atfection,  and  all 
that  sort  of  thing,  imperatively  demand  that  he 
should  run  away  with  an  heiress.” 

“And  break  her  heart  as  speedily  as  possible?” 
said  Mr.  Haredale,  drawing  on  his  glove. 

“  There  Ned  will  act  exactly  as  he  pleases,”  re¬ 
turned  the  other,  sipping  his  wine ;  “  that’s  entirely 
his  affair.  I  wouldn’t  for  the  world  interfere  with 
my  son,  Haredale,  beyond  a  certain  point.  The  re¬ 
lationship  between  father  and  son,  you  know,  is 
positively  quite  a  holy  kind  of  bond. — Won’t  you  let 
me  persuade  you  to  take  one  glass  of  wine?  Well! 
as  you  please,  as  you  please,”  he  added,  helping  him¬ 
self  again. 

“  Chester,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  after  a  short  silence, 
during  which  he  had  eyed  his  smiling  face  from  time 
to  time  intently,  “  you  have  the  head  and  heart  of  an 
evil  spirit  in  all  matters  of  deception.” 

“  Your  health !”  said  the  other,  with  a  nod.  “  But 
I  have  interrupted  you — ” 

“  If  now,”  pursued  Mr.  Haredale,  “  we  should  find 
it  difficult  to  separate  these  young  people,  and  break 
off  their  intercourse — if,  for  instance,  you  find  it  dif¬ 
ficult  on  your  side,  what  course  do  you  intend  to 
take  ?” 

“Nothing  plainer,  my  good  fellow,  nothing  eas¬ 
ier,”  returned  the  other,  shrugging  his  shoulders  and 
stretching  himself  more  comfortably  before  the  fire. 
“  I  shall  then  exert  those  powers  on  which  you  flat¬ 
ter  me  so  highly  —  though,  upon  my  word,  I  don’t 
deserve  your  compliments  to  their  full  extent — and 
resort  to  a  few  little  trivial  subterfuges  for  rousing 
jealousy  and  resentment.  You  see  ?” 

“  In  short,  justifying  the  means  by  the  end,  we  are, 
as  a  last  resource  for  tearing  them  asunder,  to  re¬ 
sort  to  treachery  and — and  lying,”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  Oh  dear,  no.  Fie,  fie !”  returned  the  other,  relish¬ 
ing  a  pinch  of  snuff  extremely.  “Not  lying.  Only 
a  little  management,  a  little  diplomacy,  a  little — in¬ 
triguing,  that’s  the  word.” 

“  I  wish,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  moving  to  and  fro, 
and  stopping,  and  moving  on  again,  like  one  who 
was  ill  at  ease,  “  that  this  could  have  been  foreseen 
or  prevented.  But  as  it  has  gone  so  far,  and  it  is 
necessary  for  us  to  act,  it  is  of  no  use  shrinking  or 
regretting.  Well!  I  shall  second  your  endeavors  to 
the  utmost  of  my  power.  There  is  one  topic  in  the 
whole  wide  range  of  human  thoughts  on  which  we 


MR.  WILLET  LOOKS  INTO  JOHN’S  BOOTS. 


45 


both  agree.  We  shall  act  in  concert,  but  apart. 
There  will  be  no  need,  I  hope,  for  us  to  meet  again.” 

“Are  you  going?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  rising  with  a 
graceful  indolence.  “Let  me  light  you  down  the 
stairs.” 

“  Pray  keep  your  seat,”  returned  the  other,  dryly, 
“  I  know  the  way.”  So,  waving  his  hand  slightly, 
and  putting  on  his  hat  as  he  turned  upon  his  heel,  he 
went  clanking  out  as  he  had  come,  shut  the  door  be¬ 
hind  him,  and  tramped  down  the  echoing  stairs. 

“  Pah !  A  very  coarse  animal,  indeed  !”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  composing  himself  in  the  easy-cliair  again. 
“A  rough  brute.  Quite  a  human  badger !” 

John  Willet  and  his  friends,  who  had  been  listen¬ 
ing  intently  for  the  clash  of  swords,  or  firing  of  pis- 


volved  them  in  great  uncertainty  aud  doubt.  At 
length  Mr.  Willet  agreed  to  go  up  stairs  himself,  es¬ 
corted  by  Hugh  and  Barnaby,  as  the  strongest  and 
stoutest  fellows  on  the  premises,  who  were  to  make 
their  appearance  under  pretense  of  clearing  away 
the  glasses. 

Under  this  protection,  the  brave  and  broad-faced 
John  boldly  entered  the  room,  half  a  foot  in  advance, 
and  received  an  order  for  a  boot-jack  without  trem¬ 
bling.  But  when  it  was  brought,  and  he  leaned  his 
sturdy  shoulder  to  the  guest,  Mr.  Willet  was  observed 
to  look  very  hard  into  his  boots  as  he  pulled  them 
off,  and,  by  opening  his  eyes  much  wider  than  usual, 
to  appear  to  express  some  surprise  and  disappoint¬ 
ment  at  not  finding  them  full  of  blood.  He  took  oc- 


“  CHESTER.”  SAID  MB.  II  ABED  ALE.  AFTER  A  SHORT  SILENCE.  DURING  WHICH  HE  HAD  EYED  HIS  SMILING  FACE  FROM  TIME  TO  TIME 


INTENTLY,  “  YOU  HAVE  THE  HEAD  AND  HEART  OF 

tols  in  the  great  room,  and  had  indeed  settled  the 
order  in  which  they  should  rush  in  when  summoned 
— in  which  procession  old  John  had  carefully  ar¬ 
ranged  that  he  should  bring  up  the  rear — were  very 
much  astonished  to  see  Mr.  Haredale  come  down 
without  a  scratch,  call  for  his  horse,  and  ride  away 
thoughtfully  at  a  foot-pace.  After  some  considera¬ 
tion,  it  was  decided  that  he  had  left  the  gentleman 
above,  for  dead,  and  had  adopted  this  stratagem  to 
divert  suspicion  or  pursuit. 

As  this  conclusion  involved  the  necessity  of  their 
going  up  stairs  forthwith,  they  were  about  to  ascend 
in  the  order  they  had  agreed  upon,  when  a  smart 
ringing  at  the  guest’s  bell,  as  if  he  had  pulled  it 
vigorously,  overthrew  all  their  speculations,  and  iu- 


AN  EVIL  SPIRIT  IN  ALL  MATTERS  OF  DECEPTION.” 

casion,  too,  to  examine  the  gentleman  as  closely  as 
he  could,  expecting  to  discover  sundry  loop-holes  in 
his  person,  pierced  by  his  adversary’s  sword.  Find¬ 
ing  none,  however,  and  observing  in  course  of  time 
that  his  guest  was  as  cool  and  unruffled,  both  in  his 
dress  and  temper,  as  he  had  been  all  day,  old  John 
at  last  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  began  to  think  no 
duel  had  been  fought  that  night. 

“  And  no  w,  Willet,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  if  the  room ’s 
well  aired,  I’ll  try  the  merits  of  that  famous  bed.” 

“  The  room,  sir,”  returned  John,  taking  up  a  can¬ 
dle,  and  nudging  Barnaby  and  Hugh  to  accompany 
them,  in  case  the  gentleman  should  unexpectedly 
drop  down  faint  or  dead  from  some  internal  wound, 
“  the  room ’s  as  warm  as  any  toast  in  a  tankard. 


46 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


Barnaby,  take  you  that  other  caudle,  and  go  on  be¬ 
fore.  Hugh !  Follow  up,  sir,  with  the  easy-chair.” 

In  this  order — and  still,  in  his  earnest  inspection, 
holding  his  candle  very  close  to  the  guest;  now 
making  him  feel  extremely  warm  about  the  legs, 
now  threatening  to  set  his  wig  on  fire,  and  constant¬ 
ly  begging  his  pardon  with  great  awkwardness  and 
embarrassment — John  led  the  party  to  the  bedroom, 
which  was  nearly  as  large  as  the  chamber  from  which 
they  had  come,  and  held,  drawn  out  near  the  fire  for 
warmth,  a  great  old  spectral  bedstead,  hung  with 
faded  brocade,  and  ornamented,  at  the  top  of  each 
carved  post,  with  a  plume  of  feathers  that  had  once 
been  white,  but  with  dust  and  age  had  now  grown 
hearse-like  and  funereal. 

“  Good-night,  my  friends,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  with 
a  sweet  smile,  seating  himself,  when  he  had  surveyed 
the  room  from  end  to  end,  in  the  easy-chair  which 
his  attendants  wheeled  before  the  fire.  “  Good-night ! 
Barnaby,  my  good  fellow,  you  say  some  prayers  be¬ 
fore  you  go  to  bed,  I  hope  ?” 

Barnaby  nodded.  “  He  has  some  nonsense  that  he 
calls  his  prayers,  sir,”  returned  old  John,  officiously. 
“I’m  afraid  there  an’t  much  good  in  ’em.” 

“  And  Hugh?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  turning  to  him. 

“Not  I,”  he  answered.  “I  know  his” — pointing 
to  Barnaby — “they’re  well  enough.  He  sings  ’em 
sometimes  in  the  straw.  I  listen.” 

“  He’s  quite  a  animal,  sir,”  John  whispered  in  his 
ear  with  dignity.  “  You’ll  excuse  him,  I’m  sure.  If 
he  has  any  soul  at  all,  sir,  it  must  be  such  a  very 
small  one  that  it  don’t  signify  what  he  does  or 
doesn’t  in  that  way.  Good-night,  sir !” 

The  guest  rejoined  “  God  bless  you !”  with  a  fervor 
that  was  quite  affecting;  and  John,  beckoning  his 
guards  to  go  before,  bowed  himself  out  of  the  room, 
and  left  him  to  his  rest  in  the  Maypole’s  ancient  bed. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

IF  Joseph  Willet,  the  denounced  and  proscribed 
of  ’prentices,  had  happened  to  be  at  home  when 
his  father’s  courtly  guest  presented  himself  before 
the  Maypole  door — that  is,  if  it  had  not  perversely 
chanced  to  be  one  of  the  half  -  dozen  days  in  the 
whole  year  on  which  he  was  at  liberty  to  absent 
himself  for  as  many  hours  without  question  or  re¬ 
proach — he  would  have  contrived,  by  hook  or  crook, 
to  dive  to  the  very  bottom  of  Mr.  Chester’s  mystery, 
and  to  come  at  his  purpose  with  as  much  certainty 
as  though  he  had  been  his  confidential  adviser.  In 
that  fortunate  case,  the  lovers  wonld  have  had  quick 
warning  of  the  ills  that  threatened  them,  and  the  aid 
of  various  timely  and  wise  suggestions  to  boot ;  for 
all  Joe’s  readiness  of  thought  and  action,  and  all  his 
sympathies  and  good  wishes,  were  enlisted  in  favor 
of  the  young  people,  and  were  staunch  in  devotion 
to  their  cause.  Whether  this  disposition  arose  out 
of  his  old  prepossessions  in  favor  of  the  young  lady, 
whose  history  had  surrounded  her  in  his  mind,  al¬ 
most  from  his  cradle,  with  circumstances  of  unusual 
interest ;  or  from  his  attachment  toward  the  young 
gentleman,  into  whose  confidence  he  had,  through 
his  shrewdness  and  alacrity,  and  the  rendering  of 


sundry  important  services  as  a  spy  and  messenger, 
almost  imperceptibly  glided ;  whether  they  had  their 
origin  in  either  of  these  sources,  or  iu  the  habit  nat¬ 
ural  to  youth,  or  in  the  constant  badgering  and  wor¬ 
rying  of  his  venerable  parent,  or  in  any  hidden  lit¬ 
tle  love-affair  of  his  own  which  gave  him  something 
of  a  fellow-feeling  in  the  matter,  it  is  needless  to  in¬ 
quire —  especially  as  Joe  was  out  of  the  way,  and 
had  no  opportunity  on  that  particular  occasion  of 
testifying  to  his  sentiments  either  on  one  side  or 
the  other. 

It  was,  in  fact,  the  twenty-fifth  of  March,  which, 
as' most  people  know  to  their  cost,  is,  and  has  been 
time  out  of  mind,  one  of  those  unpleasant  epochs 
termed  quarter-days.  On  this  twenty-fifth  of  March, 
it  was  John  Willet’s  pride  annually  to  settle,  in  hard 
cash,  his  account  with  a  certain  vintner  and  distill¬ 
er  in  the  city  of  London  ;  to  give  into  whose  hands 
a  canvas  bag  containing  its  exact  amount,  and  not 
a  penny  more  or  less,  was  the  end  and  object  of  a 
journey  for  Joe,  so  surely  as  the  year  and  day  came 
round. 

This  journey  was  performed  upon  an  old  gray 
mare,  concerning  whom  John  had  an  indistinct  set 
of  ideas  hovering  about  him,  to  the  effect  that  she 
could  win  a  plate  or  cup  if  she  tried.  She  never 
had  tried,  and  probably  never  would  now,  being 
some  fourteen  or  fifteen  years  of  age,  short  in  wind, 
long  in  body,  and  rather  the  worse  for  wear  in  re¬ 
spect  of  her  mane  and  tail.  Notwithstanding  these 
slight  defects,  John  perfectly  gloried  in  the  animal; 
and  when  she  was  brought  round  to  the  door  by 
Hugh,  actually  retired  into  the  bar,  and  there,  in  a 
secret  grove  of  lemons,  laughed  with  pride. 

“  There’s  a  bit  of  horse-flesh,  Hugh  !”  said  John, 
when  he  had  recovered  enough  self-command  to  ap¬ 
pear  at  the  door  again.  “There’s  a  comely  crea¬ 
ture  !  There’s  high  mettle !  There’s  bone !” 

There  was  bone  enough  beyond  all  doubt ;  and  so 
Hugh  seemed  to  think,  as  he  sat  sideways  in  the  sad¬ 
dle,  lazily  doubled  up  with  his  chin  nearly  touching 
his  knees ;  and  heedless  of  the  dangling  stirrups  and 
loose  bridle-rein,  sauntered  up  and  down  on  the  lit¬ 
tle  green  before  the  door. 

“  Mind  you  take  good  care  of  her,  sir,”  said  John, 
appealing  from  this  insensible  person  to  his  son  and 
heir,  who  now  appeared,  fully  equipped  and  ready. 
“  Don’t  you  ride  hard.” 

“  I  should  be  puzzled  to  do  that,  I  think,  father,” 
Joe  replied,  casting  a  disconsolate  look  at  the  ani¬ 
mal. 

“  None  of  your  impudence,  sir,  if  you  please,”  re¬ 
torted  old  John.  “What  would  you  ride,  sir?  A 
wild  ass  or  zebra  would  be  too  tame  for  you,  wouldn’t 
he,  eh,  sir  ?  You’d  like  to  ride  a  roaring  lion,  wouldn’t 
you,  sir,  eh,  sir  ?  Hold  your  tongue,  sir.”  When  Mr. 
Willet,  in  his  differences  with  his  son,  had  exhaust¬ 
ed  all  the  questions  that  occurred  to  him,  and  Joe 
had  said  nothing  at  all  in  answer,  he  generally  wound 
up  by  bidding  him  hold  his  tongue. 

“And  what  does  the  boy  mean,”  added  Mr.  Willet, 
after  he  had  stared  at  him  for  a  little  time,  in  a  spe¬ 
cies  of  stupefaction,  “by  cocking  his  hat,  to  such  an 
extent!  Are  you  going  to  kill  the  wiutner,  sir?” 

“No,”  said  Joe,  tartly;  “I’m  not.  Now  your 
mind ’s  at  ease,  father.” 


THE  WARREN. 


47 


“With  a  miliutary  air,  too!”  said  Mr.  Willet,  sur¬ 
veying  him  from  top  to  toe ;  “  with  a  swaggering, 
tire-eating,  biling-water-drinking  sort  of  way  with 
him !  And  what  do  you  mean  by  pulling  up  the 
crocuses  and  snowdrops,  eh  sir  V1 

“  It’s  only  a  little  nosegay,”  said  Joe,  reddening. 
“  There’s  no  harm  in  that,  I  hope  ?” 

“You’re  a  boy  of  business,  you  are,  sir!”  said  Mr. 
Willet,  disdainfully,  “  to  go  supposing  that  wintners 
care  for  nosegays.” 

“  I  don’t  suppose  any  thing  of  the  kind,”  returned 
Joe.  “  Let  them  keep  their  red  roses  for  bottles  and 
tankards.  These  are  going  to  Mr.  Varden’s  house.” 

“And  do  you  suppose  he  minds  such  things  as  cro¬ 
cuses  ?”  demanded  John. 

“  I  don’t  know,  and  to  say  the  truth,  I  don’t  care,” 
said  Joe.  “Come  father,  give  me  the  money,  and 
in  the  name  of  patience  let  me  go.” 

“There  it  is,  sir,”  replied  John;  “and  take  care 
of  it;  and  mind  you  don’t  make  too  much  haste 
back,  but  give  the  mare  a  long  rest. — Do  you  mind  ?” 

“Ay,  I  mind,”  returned  Joe.  “She’ll  need  it, 
Heaven  knows.” 

“And  don’t  you  score  up  too  much  at  the  Black 
Lion,”  said  John.  “Mind  that  too.” 

“  Then  why  don’t  you  let  me  have  some  money  of 
my  own  ?”  retorted  Joe,  sorrowfully  ;  “  why  don’t 
you,  father?  What  do  you  send  me  into  London 
for,  giving  me  only  the  right  to  call  for  my  dinner 
at  the  Black  Lion,  which  you’re  to  pay  for  next  time 
you  go,  as  if  I  was  not  to  be  trusted  with  a  few 
shillings  ?  Why  do  you  use  me  like  this  ?  It’s  not 
right  of  you.  You  can’t  expect  me  to  be  quiet  un¬ 
der  it.” 

“Let  him  have  money!”  cried  John,  in  a  drowsy 
reverie.  “What  does  he  call  money  —  guineas? 
Hasn’t  he  got  money?  Over  and  above  the  tolls, 
hasn’t  he  one-and-sixpence?” 

“  One-and-sixpence  !”  repeated  his  son,  contempt¬ 
uously. 

“Yes,  sir,”  returned  John,  “one-and-sixpence. 
When  I  was  your  age,  I  had  never  seen  so  much 
money,  in  a  heap.  A  shilling  of  it  is  in  case  of  acci¬ 
dents — the  mare  casting  a  shoe,  or  the  like  of  that. 
The  other  sixpence  is  to  spend  in  the  diversions  of 
London;  and  the  diversion  I  recommend  is  to  go  to 
the  top  of  the  Monument,  and  sitting  there.  There’s 
no  temptation  there,  sir — no  drink — no  young  wom¬ 
en — no  bad  characters  of  any  sort — nothing  but  im¬ 
agination.  That’s  the  way  I  enjoyed  myself  when  I 
was  your  age,  sir.” 

To  this,  Joe  made  no  answer,  but  beckoning  Hugh, 
leaped  into  the  saddle  and  rode  away;  and  a  very 
stalwart,  manly  horseman  he  looked,  deserving  a 
better  charger  than  it  was  his  fortune  to  bestride. 
John  stood  staring  after  him,  or  rather  after  the  gray 
mare  (for  he  had  no  eyes  for  her  rider),  until  man 
and  beast  had  been  out  of  sight  some  twenty  min¬ 
utes,  when  he  began  to  think  they  were  gone,  and 
slowly  re-entering  the  house,  fell  into  a  gentle  doze. 

The  unfortunate  gray  mare,  who  was  the  agony 
of  Joe’s  life,  floundered  along  at  her  own  will  and 
pleasure  until  the  Maypole  was  no  longer  visible, 
and  then  contracting  her  legs  into  what  in  a  puppet 
would  have  been  looked  upon  as  a  clumsy  and  awk¬ 
ward  imitation  of  a  canter,  mended  her  pace  all  at 


once,  and  did  it  of  her  own  accord.  The  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  her  rider’s  usual  mode  of  proceeding, 
which  suggested  this  improvement  in  hers,  impelled 
her  likewise  to  turn  up  a  by-way,  leading — not  to 
London,  but  through  lanes  running  parallel  with 
the  road  they  had  come,  and  passing  within  a  few 
hundred  yards  of  the  Maypole,  which  led  finally  to 
an  inclosure  surrounding  a  large,  old,  red-brick  man¬ 
sion — the  same  of  which  mention  was  made  as  the 
Warren  in  the  first  chapter  of  this  history.  Coining 
to  a  dead  stop  in  a  little  copse  thereabout,  she  suf¬ 
fered  her  rider  to  dismount  with  right  good-will, 
and  to  tie  her  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree. 

“Stay  there,  old  girl,”  said  Joe,  “and  let  us  see 
whether  there’s  any  little  commission  for  me  to¬ 
day.”  So  saying,  he  left  her  to  browse  upon  such 
stunted  grass  and  weeds  as  happened  to  grow  with¬ 
in  the  length  of  her  tether,  and  passing  through  a 
wicket-gate,  entered  the  grounds  on*  foot. 

The  pathway,  after  a  very  few  minutes’  walking, 
brought  him  close  to  the  house,  toward  which,  and 
especially  toward  one  particular  window,  he  direct¬ 
ed  many  covert  glances.  It  was  a  dreary,  silent 
building,  with  echoing  court-yards,  desolated  turret 
chambers,  and  whole  suites  of  rooms  shut  up  and 
mouldering  to  ruin. 

The  terrace-garden,  dark  with  the  shade  of  over¬ 
hanging  trees,  had  an  air  of  melancholy  that  was 
quite  oppressive.  Great  iron  gates,  disused  for  many 
years,  and  red  with  rust,  drooping  on  their  hinges 
and  overgrown  with  long  rank  grass,  seemed  as 
though  they  tried  to  sink  into  the  ground,  and  hide 
their  fallen  state  among  the  friendly  weeds.  The 
fantastic  monsters  on  the  walls,  green  with  age  and 
damp,  and  covered  here  and  there  with  moss,  looked 
grim  and  desolate.  There  was  a  sombre  aspect  even 
on  that  part  of  the  mansion  which  was  inhabited 
and  kept  in  good  repair,  that  struck  the  beholder 
with  a  sense  of  sadness;  of  something  forlorn  and 
failing,  whence  cheerfulness  was  banished.  It  would 
have  been  difficult  to  imagine  a  bright  fire  blazing 
in  the  dull  and  darkened  rooms,  or  to  picture  any 
gayety  of  heart  or  revelry  that  the  frowning  walls 
shut  in.  It  seemed  a  place  where  such  things  had 
been,  but  could  be  no  more — the  very  ghost  of  a 
house,  haunting  the  old  spot  in  its  old  outward  form, 
and  that  was  all. 

Much  of  this  decayed  and  sombre  look  was  at¬ 
tributable,  no  doubt,  to  the  death  of  its  former  mas¬ 
ter,  and  the  temper  of  its  present  occupant ;  but  re¬ 
membering  the  tale  connected  with  the  mansion,  it 
seemed  the  very  place  for  such  a  deed,  and  one  that 
might  have  been  its  predestined  theatre  years  upon 
years  ago.  Viewed  with  reference  to  this  legend, 
the  sheet  of  water  wdiere  the  steward’s  body  had 
been  found  appeared  to  Avear  a  black  and  sullen 
character,  such  as  no  other  pool  might  own;  the 
bell  upon  the  roof  that  had  told  the  tale  of  murder 
to  the  midnight  wind,  became  a  Arery  phantom  whose 
voice  would  raise  the  listener’s  hair  on  end ;  and  ev¬ 
ery  leafless  bough  that  nodded  to  another,  had  its 
stealthy  Avliispering  of  the  crime. 

Joe  paced  up  and  down  the  path,  sometimes  stop¬ 
ping  in  affected  contemplation  of  the  building  or 
the  prospect,  sometimes  leaning  against  a  tree  with 
an  assumed  air  of  idleness  and  indifference,  but  al- 


48 


BAB  NAB  Y  BUDGE. 


ways  keeping  an  eye  upon  tlie  window  he  had  sin¬ 
gled  out  at  first.  After  some  quarter  of  an  hour’s 
delay,  a  small  white  hand  was  waved  to  him  for  an 
instant  from  this  casement,  and  the  young  man,  with 
a  respectful  bow,  departed ;  saying  under  his  breath 
as  he  crossed  his  horse  again,  “  No  errand  for  me  to¬ 
day!” 

But  the  air  of  smartness,  the  cock  of  the  hat  to 
which  John  Willet  had  objected,  and  the  spring 
nosegay,  all  betokened  some  little  errand  of  hi3  own, 
having  a  more  interesting  object  than  a  vintner  or 
even  a  lock-  smith.  So,  indeed,  it  turned  out ;  for 
when  he  had  settled  with  the  vintner— whose  place 
of  business  was  down  in  some  deep  cellars  hard  by 
Thames  Street,  and  who  was  as  purple-faced  an  old 
gentleman  as  if  he  had  all  his  life  supported  their 
arched  roof  on  his  head — when  he  had  settled  the 
account,  and  taken  the  receipt,  and  declined  tast¬ 
ing  more  than  three  glasses  of  old  sherry,  to  the  un¬ 
bounded  astonishment  of  the  purple-faced  vintner, 
who,  gimlet  in  hand,  had  projected  an  attack  upon 
at  least  a  score  of  dusky  casks,  and  wTho  stood  trans¬ 
fixed,  or  morally  gimleted  as  it  were,  to  his  own  wall 
— when  he  had  done  all  this,  and  disposed  besides 
of  a  frugal  dinner  at  the  Black  Lion  in  Whitechapel; 
spurning  the  Monument  and  John’s  advice,  he  turn¬ 
ed  his  steps  toward  the  lock-smith’s  house,  attracted 
by  the  eyes  of  blooming  Dolly  Varden. 

Joe  was  by  no  means  a  sheepish  fellow,  but,  for 
all  that,  when  he  got  to  the  corner  of  the  street  in 
which  the  lock-smith  lived,  he  could  by  no  means 
make  up  his  mind  to  walk  straight  to  the  house. 
First,  he  resolved  to  stroll  up  another  street  for  five 
minutes,  then  up  another  street  for  five  minutes 
more,  and  so  on  until  he  had  lost  full  half  an  hour, 
when  he  made  a  bold  plunge  and  found  himself  with 
a  red  face  and  a  beating  heart  in  the  smoky  work¬ 
shop. 

“Joe  Willet,  or  his  ghost?”  said  Yarden,  rising 
from  the  desk  at  which  he  was  busy  with  his  books, 
and  looking  at  him  under  his  spectacles.  “Which 
is  it?  Joe  in  the  flesh,  eh?  That’s  hearty.  And 
how  are  all  the  Chigwell  company,  Joe  ?” 

“  Much  as  usual,  sir — they  and  I  agree  as  well  as 
ever.” 

“  Well,  well !”  said  the  lock-smith.  “  We  must  be 
patient,  Joe,  and  bear  with  old  folks’  foibles.  How’s 
the  mare,  Joe  ?  Does  she  do  the  four  miles  an  hour 
as  easily  as  ever?  Ha,  ha,  ha!  Does  she,  Joe? 
Eh ! — What  have  we  there,  Joe — a  nosegay !” 

“A  very  poor  one,  sir — I  thought  Miss  Dolly — ” 

“No,  no,”  said  Gabriel,  dropping  his  voice,  and 
shaking  his  head,  “not  Dolly.  Give  ’em  to  her 
mother,  Joe.  A  great  deal  better  give  ’em  to  her 
mother.  Would  you  mind  giving  ’em  to  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den,  Joe?” 

“  Oh  no,  sir,”  Joe  replied,  and  endeavoring,  but 
not  with  the  greatest  possible  success,  to  hide  his 
disappointment.  “  I  shall  be  very  glad,  I’m  sure.” 

“  That’s  right,”  said  the  lock-smith,  patting  him 
on  the  back.  “  It  don’t  matter  who  has  ’em,  Joe  ?” 

“Not  a  bit,  sir.”- — Dear  heart,  how  the  words 
stuck  in  his  throat ! 

“  Come  in,”  said  Gabriel.  “  I  have  just  been  call¬ 
ed  to  tea.  She’s  in  the  parlor.” 

“  She,”  thought  Joe.  “Which  of ’em,  I  wonder — 


Mrs.  or  Miss  ?”  The  lock-smith  settled  the  doubt 
as  neatly  as  if  it  had  been  expressed  aloud,  by  lead¬ 
ing  him  to  the  door,  and  saying,  “  Martha,  my  dear, 
here’s  young  Mr.  Willet.” 

Now,  Mrs.  Varden,  regarding  the  Maypole  as  a 
sort  of  human  man-trap,  or  decoy  for  husbands ; 
viewing  its  proprietor,  and  all  who  aided  and  abet¬ 
ted  him,  in  the  light  of  so  many  poachers  among 
Christian  men ;  and  believing,  moreover,  that  the 
publicans  coupled  with  sinners  in  Holy  Writ  were 
veritable  licensed  victualers;  was  far  from  being 
favorably  disposed  toward  her  visitor.  Wherefore 
she  was  taken  faint  directly ;  and  being  duly  pre¬ 
sented  with  the  crocuses  and  snowdrops,  divined  on 
further  consideration  that  they  were  the  occasion  of 
the  languor  which  had  seized  upon  her  spirits.  “  I’m 
afraid  I  couldn’t  bear  the  room  another  minute,” 
said  the  good  lady,  “if  they  remain  here.  Would 
you  excuse  my  putting  them  out  of  window  ?” 

Joe  begged  she  wouldn’t  mention  it  on  any  ac¬ 
count,  and  smiled  feebly  as  he  saw  them  deposited 
on  the  sill  outside.  If  any  body  could  have  known 
the  pains  he  had  taken  to  make  up  that  despised 
and  misused  bunch  of  flowers ! 

“I  feel  it  quite  a  relief  to  get  rid  of  them,  I  as¬ 
sure  you,”  said  Mrs.  Varden.  “  I’m  better  already.” 
And  indeed  she  did  appear  to  have  plucked  up  her 
spirits. 

Joe  expressed  his  gratitude  to  Providence  for  this 
favorable  dispensation,  and  tried  to  look  as  if  he 
didn’t  wonder  where  Dolly  was. 

“You’re  sad  people  at  Chigwell,  Mr.  Joseph,”  said 
Mrs.  V. 

“  I  hope  not,  ma’am,”  returned  Joe. 

“You’re  the  cruelest  and  most  inconsiderate  peo¬ 
ple  in  the  world,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  bridling.  “I 
wonder  old  Mr.  Willet,  having  been  a  married  man 
himself,  doesn’t  know  better  than  to  conduct  him¬ 
self  as  he  does.  His  doing  it  for  profit  is  no  excuse. 
I  would  rather  pay  the  money  twenty  times  over, 
and  have  Varden  come  home  like  a  respectable  and 
sober  tradesman.  If  there  is  one  character,”  said 
Mrs.  Varden,  with  great  emphasis,  “  that  offends  and 
disgusts  me  more  than  another,  it  is  a  sot.” 

“  Come,  Martha,  my  dear,”  •said  the  lock-smith, 
cheerily,  “let  us  have  tea,  and  don’t  let  us  talk 
about  sots.  There  are  none  here,  and  Joe  don’t 
want  to  hear  about  them,  I  dare  say.” 

At  this  crisis,  Miggs  appeared  with  toast. 

“  I  dare  say  he  does  not,”  said  Mrs.  Varden  :  “  and 
I  dare  say  you  do  not,  Varden.  It’s  a  very  unpleas¬ 
ant  subject  I  have  no  doubt,  though  I  won’t  say  it’s 
personal” — Miggs  coughed  —  “whatever  I  may  be 
forced  to  think,”  Miggs  sneezed  expressively.  “  You 
never  will  know,  Varden,  and  nobody  at  young  Mr. 
Willet’s  age — you’ll  excuse  me,  sir — can  be  expect¬ 
ed  to  know  what  a  woman  suffers  when  she  is  wait¬ 
ing  at  home  under  such  circumstances.  If  you  don’t 
believe  me,  as  I  know  you  don’t,  here’s  Miggs,  who  is 
only  too  often  a  witness  of  it — ask  her.” 

“  Oh!  she  were  very  bad  the  other  night,  sir,  indeed 
she  were,”  said  Miggs.  “If  you  hadn’t  the  sweet¬ 
ness  of  an  angel  in  you,  mim,  I  don’t  think  you  could 
abear  it,  I  raly  don’t.” 

“Miggs,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  “you’re  profane.” 

“Begging  your  pardon,  mim,”  returned  Miggs, 


DIPLOMACY  OF  MISS  MIGGS. 


49 


•with  shrill  rapidity,  “  such  was  not  ray  intentions, 
and  such  I  hope  is  not  my  character,  though  I  am 
hut  a  servant.” 

“Answering  me,  Miggs,  and  providing  yourself,” 
retorted  her  mistress,  looking  round  with  dignity, 
“  is  one  and  the  same  thing.  How  dare  you  speak 
of  angels  in  connection  with  your  sinful  fellow- 
beings — mere” — said  Mrs.  Varden,  glancing  at  her¬ 
self  in  a  neighboring  mirror,  and  arranging  the  rib¬ 
bon  of  her  cap  in  a  more  becoming  fashion — “mere 
worms  and  grovelers  as  we  are !” 

“ 1  did  not  intend,  mim,  if  you  please,  to  give  of¬ 
fense,”  said  Miggs,  confident  in  the  strength  of  her 
compliment,  and  developing  strongly  in  the  throat 
as  usual,  “and  I  did  not  expect  it  would  be  took  as 
such.  I  hope  I  know  my  own  unworthiness,  and 
that  I  hate  and  despise  myself  and  all  my  fellow- 
creatures  as  every  practicable  Christian  should.” 

“  You’ll  have  the  goodness,  if  you  please,”  said 
Mrs.  Varden,  loftily,  “to  step  up  stairs  and  see  if 
Dolly  has  finished  dressing,  and  to  tell  her  that  the 
chair  that  was  ordered  for  her  will  be  here  in  a 
minute,  and  that  if  she  keeps  it  waiting,  I  shall  send 
it  away  that  instant. — I’m  sorry  to  see  that  you 
don’t  take  your  tea,  Varden,  and  that  you  don’t  take 
yours,  Mr.  Joseph ;  though  of  course  it  would  be 
foolish  of  me  to  expect  that  any  thing  that  can  be 
had  at  home,  and  in  the  company  of  females,  would 
please  you." 

This  pronoun  was  understood  in  the  plural  sense, 
and  included  both  gentlemen,  upon  both  of  whom  it 
was  rather  hard  and  undeserved,  for  Gabriel  had  ap¬ 
plied  himself  to  the  meal  with  a  very  promising  ap¬ 
petite,  until  it  was  spoiled  by  Mrs.  Varden  herself,  and 
Joe  had  as  great  a  liking  for  the  female  society  of 
the  lock -smith’s  house  —  or  for  a  part  of  it,  at  all 
events — as  man  could  well  entertain. 

But  he  had  no  opportunity  to  say  any  thing  in 
his  own  defense,  for  at  that  moment  Dolly  herself 
appeared,  and  struck  him  quite  dumb  with  her  beau¬ 
ty.  Never  had  Dolly  looked  so  handsome  as  she  did 
then,  in  all  the  glow  and  grace  of  youth,  with  all 
her  charms  increased  a  hundred-fold  by  a  most  be¬ 
coming  dress,  by  a  thousand  little  coquettish  ways 
which  nobody  could  assume  with  a  better  grace,  and 
all  the  sparkling  expectation  of  that  accursed  party. 
It  is  impossible  to  tell  how  Joe  hated  that  party 
wherever  it  was,  and  all  the  other  people  who  were 
going  to  it,  whoever  they  were. 

And  she  hardly  looked  at  him — no,  hardly  looked 
at  him.  And  when  the  chair  was  seen  through  the 
open  door  coming  blundering  into  the  workshop, 
she  actually  clapped  her  hands  and  seemed  glad  to 
go.  But  Joe  gave  her  his  arm— there  was  some 
comfort  in  that — and  handed  her  into  it.  To  see  her 
seat  herself  inside,  writh  her  laughing  eyes  brighter 
than  diamonds,  and  her  hand — surely  she  had  the 
prettiest  hand  in  the  world — on  the  ledge  of  the 
open  window,  and  her  little  finger  provokingly  and 
pertly  tilted  up,  as  if  it  wondered  why  Joe  didn’t 
squeeze  or  kiss  it !  To  think  how  well  one  or  two 
of  the  modest  snowdrops  would  have  become  that 
delicate  bodice,  and  how  they  Avere  lying  neglected 
outside  the  parlor  window !  To  see  how  Miggs  look¬ 
ed  on  with  a  face  expressive  of  knowing  how  all 
this  loveliness  was  got  up,  and  of  being  in  the  secret 

4 


|  of  every  string  and  pin  and  hook  and  eye,  and  of 
saying  it  an’t  half  as  real  as  you  think,  and  I  could 
look  quite  as  well  myself  if  I  took  the  pains !  To 
hear  that  provoking  precious  little  scream  when  the 
chair  wTas  hoisted  on  its  poles,  and  to  catch  that 
transient  but  not-to-be-forgotten  vision  of  the  hap¬ 
py  face  within — what  torments  and  aggravations, 
and  yet  what  delights  were  these !  The  very  chair¬ 
men  seemed  favored  rivals  as  they  bore  her  down 
the  street. 

There  never  was  such  an  alteration  in  a  small 
room  in  a  small  time  as  in  that  parlor  when  they 
went  back  to  finish  tea.  So  dark,  so  deserted,  so 
perfectly  disenchanted.  It  seemed  such  sheer  non¬ 
sense  to  be  sitting  tamely  there,  when  she  was  at  a 
dance  with  more  lovers  than  man  could  calculate 
fluttering  about  her  —  with  the  whole  party  dot¬ 
ing  on  and  adoring  her,  and  wanting  to  marry  her. 
Miggs  was  hovering  about  too;  and  the- fact  of  her 
existence,  the  mere  circumstance  of  her  ever  having 
been  born,  appeared,  after  Dolly,  such  an  unaccount¬ 
able  practical  joke.  It  was  impossible  to  talk.  It 
couldn’t  be  done.  He  had  nothing  left  for  it  but  to 
stir  his  tea  round,  and  round,  and  round,  and  rumi¬ 
nate  on  all  the  fascinations  of  the  lock-smith’s  love¬ 
ly  daughter. 

Gabriel  was  dull  too.  It  was  a  part  of  the  cer¬ 
tain  uncertainty  of  Mrs.  Varden’s  temper,  that  when 
they  were  in  this  condition,  she  should  be  gay  and 
sprightly. 

“  I  need  have  a  cheerful  disposition,  I  am  sure,” 
said  the  smiling  housewife,  “to  preserve  any  spirits 
at  all ;  and  how  I  do  it  I  can  scarcely  tell.” 

■  “Ah,  mim,”  sighed  Miggs,  “begging  your  pardon 
for  the  interruption,  there  an’t  a  many  like  you.” 

“Take  away,  Miggs,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  rising, 
“take  away,  pray.  I  know  I’m  a  restraint  here,  and 
as  I  wish  every  body  to  enjoy  themselves  as  they 
best  can,  I  feel  I  had  better  go.” 

“  No,  no,  Martha,”  cried  the  lock-smith.  “Stop 
here.  I’m  sure  we  shall  be  very  sorry  to  lose  you, 
eh  Joe !”  Joe  started,  and  said,  “  Certainly.” 

“  Thank  you,  Varden,  my  dear,”  returned  his  wife  ; 
“  but  I  know  your  wishes  better.  Tobacco  and  beer, 
or  spirits,  have  much  greater  attractions  than  any 
I  can  boast  of,  and  therefore  I  shall  go  and  sit  up 
stairs  and  look  out  of  window,  my  love.  Good-night, 
Mr.  Joseph,  I’m  very  glad  to  have  seen  you,  and  I 
only  wish  I  could  have  provided  something  more 
suitable  to  your  taste.  Remember  me  very  kindly 
if  you  please  to  old  Mr.  Willet,  and  tell  him  that 
whenever  he  comes  here  I  have  a  crow  to  pluck 
with  him.  Good-night!” 

Having  uttered  these  words  with  great  sweetness 
of  manner,  the  good  lady  dropped  a  courtesy  remark¬ 
able  for  its  condescension,  and  serenely  withdrew. 

And  it  was  for  this  Joe  had  looked  forward  to  the 
twenty-fifth  of  March  for  wreeks  and  weeks,  and  had 
gathered  the  flowers  with  so  much  care,  and  had 
cocked  his  hat,  and  made  himself  so  smart !  This 
was  the  end  of  all  his  bold  determination,  resolved 
upon  for  the  hundredth  time,  to  speak  out  to  Dolly 
and  tell  her  how  he  loved  her!  To  see  her  for  a 
minute — for  but  a  minute — to  find  her  going  out  to 
a  party  and  glad  to  go ;  to  be  looked  upon  as  a  com¬ 
mon  pipe- smoker,  beer -bibber,  spirit -guzzler,  and 


50 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


tosspot !  He  bade  farewell  to  bis  friend  tbe  lock¬ 
smith,  aud  hastened  to  take  horse  at  the  Black  Lion, 
thinking  as  he  turned  toward  home,  as  many  an¬ 
other  Joe  has  thought  before  and  since,  that  here 
was  an  end  to  all  his  hopes — that  the  thing  was  im¬ 
possible  and  never  could  be — that  she  didn’t  care 
for  him — that  he  was  wretched  for  life — and  that 
the  only  congenial  prospect  left  him,  was  to  go  for  a 
soldier  or  a  sailor,  and  get  some  obliging  enemy  to 
knock  his  brains  out  as  soon  as  possible. 


CHAPTER  XIY. 

JOE  WILLET  rode  leisurely  along  in  his  despond¬ 
ing  mood,  picturing  the  lock  -  smith’s  daughter 
going  down  long  country -dances,  and  poussetting 
dreadfully  with  bold  strangers — which  was  almost 
too  much  to  bear— when  he  heard  the  tramp  of  a 
horse’s  feet  behind  him,  and  looking  back,  saw  a 
well-mounted  gentleman  advancing  at  a  smart  can¬ 
ter.  As  this  rider  passed,  he  checked  his  steed,  and 
called  him  of  the  Maypole  by  his  name.  Joe  set 
spurs  to  the  gray  mare,  and  was  at  his  side  directly. 

“  I  thought  it  was  you,  sir,”  he  said,  touching  his 
hat.  “A  fair  evening,  sir.  Glad  to  see  you  out-of- 
doors  again.” 

The  gentleman  smiled  and  nodded.  “What  gay 
doings  have  been  going  on  to-day,  Joe?  Is  she  as 
pretty  as  ever?  Nay,  don’t  blush,  man.” 

“  If  I  colored  at  all,  Mr.  Edward,”  said  Joe,  “which 
I  didn’t  know  I  did,  it  was  to  think  I  should  have 
been  such  a  fool  as  ever  to  have  any  hope  of  her. 
She’s  as  far  out  of  my  reach  as — as  Heaven  is.” 

“  Well,  Joe,  I  hope  that’s  not  altogether  beyond 
it,”  said  Edward,  good-humoredly.  “Eh?” 

“Ah !”  sighed  Joe.  “  It’s  all  very  fine  talking,  sir. 
Proverbs  are  easily  made  in  cold  blood.  But  it  can’t 
be  helped.  Are  you  bound  for  our  house,  sir?” 

“  Yes.  As  I  am  not  quite  strong  yet,  I  shall  stay 
there  to-night,  aud  ride  home  coolly  in  the  morning.” 

“  If  you’re  in  no  particular  hurry,”  said  Joe  after 
a  short  silence,  “  and  will  bear  with  the  pace  of  this 
poor  jade,  I  shall  be  glad  to  ride  on  with  you  to  the 
Warren,  sir,  and  hold  your  horse  when  you  dismount. 
It’ll  save  you  having  to  walk  from  the  Maypole, 
there  and  back  again.  I  can  spare  the  time  well, 
sir,  for  I  am  too  soon.” 

“And  so  am  I,”  returned  Edward,  “though  I  was 
unconsciously  riding  fast  just  now,  in  compliment  I 
suppose  to  the  pace  of  my  thoughts,  which  were 
traveling  post.  We  will  keep  together,  Joe,  willing¬ 
ly,  and  be  as  good  company  as  may  be.  And  cheer 
up,  cheer  up,  think  of  the  lock-smith’s  daughter  with 
a  stout  heart,  and  you  shall  win  her  yet.” 

Joe  shook  his  head ;  but  there  was  something  so 
cheery  in  the  buoyant  hopeful  manner  of  this  speech, 
that  his  spirits  rose  under  its  influence,  and  commu¬ 
nicated  as  it  would  seem  some  new  impulse  even  to 
the  gray  mare,  who,  breaking  from  her  sober  amble 
into  a  gentle  trot,  emulated  the  pace  of  Edward 
Chester’s  horse,  and  appeared  to  flatter  herself  that 
he  was  doing  his  very  best. 

It  was  a  fine  dry  night,  and  the  light  of  a  young 
moon,  which  was  then  just  rising,  shed  around  that 


peace  and  tranquillity  which  gives  to  evening-time 
its  most  delicious  charm.  The  lengthened  shadows 
of  the  trees,  softened  as  if  reflected  in  still  water, 
threw  their  carpet  on  the  path  the  travelers  pur¬ 
sued,  and  the  light  wind  stirred  yet  more  softly  than 
before,  as  though  it  were  soothing  Nature  in  her 
sleep.  By  little  and  little  they  ceased  talking,  and 
rode  on  side  by  side  in  a  pleasant  silence. 

“  The  Maypole  lights  are  brilliant  to-night,”  said 
Edward,  as  they  rode  along  the  lane  from  which, 
while  the  intervening  trees  were  bare  of  leaves,  that 
hostelry  was  visible. 

“Brilliant  indeed,  sir,”  returned  Joe,  rising  in  his 
stirrups  to  get  a  better  view.  “Lights  in  the  large 
room,  and  a  fire  glimmering  in  the  best  bed-cham¬ 
ber?  Why,  what  company  can  this  be  for,  I  won¬ 
der  !” 

“  Some  benighted  horseman  wending  toward  Lon¬ 
don,  and  deterred  from  going  on  to-night  by  the 
marvelous  tales  of  my  friend  the  highwayman,  I 
suppose,”  said  Edward. 

“  He  must  be  a  horseman  of  good  quality  to  have 
such  accommodations.  Your  bed  too,  sir — !” 

“No  matter,  Joe.  Any  other  room  will  do  for 
me.  But  come  —  there’s  nine  striking.  We  may 
push  on.” 

They  cantered  forward  at  as  brisk  a  pace  as  Joe’s 
charger  could  attain,  and  presently  stopped  in  the 
little  copse  where  he  had  left  her  in  the  morning. 
Edward  dismounted,  gave  his  bridle  to  his  compan¬ 
ion,  and  walked  with  a  light  step  toward  the  house. 

A  female  servant  was  waiting  at  a  side  gate  in 
the  garden-wall,  aud  admitted  him  without  delay. 
He  hurried  along  the  terrace-walk,  and  darted  up  a 
flight  of  broad  steps  leading  into  an  old  and  gloomy 
hall,  whose  walls  were  ornamented  with  rusty  suits 
of  armor,  antlers,  weapons  of  the  chase,  and  such 
like  garniture.  Here  he  paused,  but  not  long;  for 
as  he  looked  round,  as  if  expecting  the  attendant  to 
have  followed,  and  Avondering  she  had  not  done  so, 
a  lovely  girl  appeared,  whose  dark  hair  next  mo¬ 
ment  rested  on  his  breast.  Almost  at  the  same  in¬ 
stant  a  heavy  hand  was  laid  upon  her  arm,  Edward 
felt  himself  thrust  away,  and  Mr.  Haredale  stood  be¬ 
tween  them. 

He  regarded  the  young  man  sternly  without  re¬ 
moving  his  hat;  with  one  hand  clasped  his  niece, 
and  with  the  other,  in  which  he  held  his  riding- 
whip,  motioned  him  toward  the  door.  The  young 
man  drew  himself  up,  and  returned  his  gaze. 

“  This  is  well  done  of  you,  sir,  to  corrupt  my  serv¬ 
ants,  and  enter  my  house  unbidden  and  in  secret, 
like  a  thief!”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “Leave  it,  sir,  and 
return  no  more.” 

“  Miss  Haredale’s  presence,”  returned  the  young 
man,  “and  your  relationship  to  her,  give  you  a  li¬ 
cense  which,  if  you  are  a  brave  man,  you  will  not 
abuse.  You  have  compelled  me  to  this  course,  and 
the  fault  is  yours — not  mine.” 

“  It  is  neither  generous,  nor  honorable,  nor  the  act 
of  a  true  man,  sir,”  retorted  the  other,  “  to  tamper 
with  the  affections  of  a  weak,  trusting  girl,  while 
you  shrink,  in  your  unworthiness,  from  her  guardian 
and  protector,  and  dare  not  meet  the  light  of  day. 
More  than  this  I  will  not  say  to  you,  save  that  I  for¬ 
bid  you  this  house,  and  require  you  to  be  gone.” 


COMFORTABLE  IN  BED. 


51 


“  It  is  ueither  generous,  nor  honorable,  nor  the  act 
of  a  true  man  to  play  the  spy,”  said  Edward.  “  Your 
words  imply  dishonor,  and  I  reject  them  with  the 
scorn  they  merit.” 

“  You  will  find,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  calmly,  “your 
trusty  go-between  in  waiting  at  the  gate  by  which 
you  entered.  I  have  played  no  spy’s  part,  sir.  I 
chanced  to  see  you  pass  the  gate,  and  followed.  You 
might  have  heard  me  knocking  for  admission,  had 
you  been  less  swift  of  foot,  or  lingered  in  the  garden. 
Please  to  withdraw.  Your  presence  here  is  offensive 
to  me  and  distressful  to  my  niece.”  As  he  said  these 
words,  he  passed  his  arm  about  the  waist  of  the  ter¬ 
rified  and  weeping  girl,  and  drew  her  closer  to  him ; 
and  though  the  habitual  severity  of  his  manner  was 
scarcely  changed,  there  was  yet  apparent  in  the  ac¬ 
tion  an  air  of  kindness  and  sympathy  for  her  dis¬ 
tress. 

“ Mr.  Haredale,”  said  Edward,  “your  arm  encir¬ 
cles  her  on  whom  I  have  set  my  every  hope  and 
thought,  and  to  purchase  one  minute’s  happiness  for 
whom  I  would  gladly  lay  down  my  life ;  this  house 
is  the  casket  that  holds  the  precious  jewel  of  my  ex¬ 
istence.  Your  niece,  has  plighted  her  faith  to  me, 
and  I  have  plighted  mine  to  her.  What  have  I  done 
that  you  should  hold  me  in  this  light  esteem,  and 
give  me  these  discourteous  words  ?” 

“You  have  done  that,  sir,”  answered  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  “which  must  be  undone.  You  have  tied  a 
lover’s  knot  here  which  must  be  cut  asunder.  Take 
good  heed  of  what  I  say.  Must.  I  cancel  the  bond 
between  ye.  I  reject  you,  and  all  of  your  kith  and 
kin — all  the  false,  hollow,  heartless  stock.” 

“  High  words,  sir,”  said  Edward,  scornfully. 

“  Words  of  purpose  and  meaning,  as  you  will  find,” 
replied  the  other.  “  Lay  them  to  heart.” 

“Lay  you  then,  these,”  said  Edward.  “Your 
cold  and  sullen  temper,  which  chills  every  breast 
about  you,  which  turns  affection  into  fear,  and 
changes  duty  into  dread,  has  forced  us  on  this  se¬ 
cret  course,  repugnant  to  our  nature  and  our  wish, 
and  far  more  foreign,  sir,  to  us  than  you.  I  am  not 
a  false,  a  hollow,  or  a  heartless  man ;  the  character 
is  yours,  who  poorly  venture  on  these  injurious  terms, 
against  the  truth,  and  under  the  shelter  whereof  I 
reminded  you  just  now.  You  shall  not  cancel  the 
bond  between  us.  I  will  not  abandon  this  pursuit. 
I  rely  upon  your  niece’s  truth  and  honor,  and  set 
your  influence  at  naught.  I  leave  her  with  a  confi¬ 
dence  in  her  pure  faith,  which  you  will  never  weak¬ 
en,  and  with  no  concern  but  that  I  do  not  leave  her 
in  some  gentler  care.” 

With  that,  he  pressed  her  cold  hand  to  his  lips, 
and  once  more  encountering  and  returning  Mr.  Hare- 
dale’s  steady  look,  withdrew. 

A  few  words  to  Joe  as  he  mounted  his  horse  suffi¬ 
ciently  explained  what  had  passed,  and  renewed  all 
that  young  gentleman’s  despondency  with  tenfold 
aggravation.  They  rode  back  to  the  Maypole  with¬ 
out  exchanging  a  syllable,  and  arrived  at  the  door 
with  heavy  hearts. 

Old  John,  who  had  peeped  from  behind  the  red 
curtain  as  they  rode  up  shouting  for  Hugh,  was  out 
directly,  and  said  with  great  importance  as  ho  held 
the  young  man’s  stirrup, 

“  He’s  comfortable  in  bed — the  best  bed.  A  thor¬ 


ough  gentleman  ;  the  smilingest,  affablest  gentleman 
I  ever  had  to  do  with.” 

“  Who,  Willet  ?”  said  Edward,  carelessly,  as  he  dis¬ 
mounted. 

“Your  worthy  father,  sir,”  replied  John.  “Your 
honorable,  venerable  father?” 

“  What  does  he  mean  ?”  said  Edward,  looking, with 
a  mixture  of  alarm  and  doubt,  at  Joe. 

“What  do  you  mean  ?”  said  Joe.  “Don’t  you  see 
Mr.  Edward  doesn’t  understand,  father  ?” 

“Why,  didn’t  you  know  of  it,  sir?”  said  John, 
opening  his  eyes  wide.  “  How  very  singular !  Bless 
you,  lie’s  been  here  ever  since  noon  to-day,  and  Mr. 
Haredale  has  been  having  a  long  talk  with  him,  and 
hasn’t  been  gone  an  hour.”  • 

“My  father,  Willet!” 

“Yes,  sir,  he  told  me  so  —  a  handsome,  slim,  up¬ 
right  gentleman,  in  green -and- gold.  In  your  old 
room  up  yonder,  sir.  No  doubt  you  cau  go  in,  sir,” 
said  John,  walking  backward  into  the  road  and 
looking  up  at  the  window.  “  He  hasn’t  put  out  his 
candles  yet,  I  see.” 

Edward  glanced  at  the  window  also,  and  hastily 
murmuring  that  he  had  changed  his  mind — forgotten 
something  —  and  must  return  to  London,  mounted 
his  horse  again  and  rode  away,  leaving  the  Willets, 
father  and  son,  looking  at  each  other  in  mute  aston¬ 
ishment. 


CHAPTER  XY. 

AT  noon  next  day,  John  Willet’s  guest  sat  linger¬ 
ing  over  his  breakfast  in  his  own  home,  sur¬ 
rounded  by  a  variety  of  comforts,  which  left  the 
Maypole’s  highest  flight  and  utmost  stretch  of  ac¬ 
commodation  at  an  infinite  distance  behind,  and  sug¬ 
gested  comparisons  very  much  to  the  disadvantage 
and  disfavor  of  that  venerable  tavern. 

In  the  broad  old-fashioned  window-seat  —  as  ca¬ 
pacious  as  many  modern  sofas,  and  cushioned  to 
serve  the  purpose  of  a  luxurious  settee — in  the  broad 
old-fashioned  window-seat  of  a  roomy  chamber,  Mr. 
Chester  lounged,  very  much  at  his  ease,  over  a  well- 
furnished  breakfast-table.  He  had  exchanged  his 
riding-coat  for  a  handsome  morning-gown,  his  boots 
for  slippers;  had  been  at  great  pains  to  atone  for 
the  having  been  obliged  to  make  his  toilet  when  he 
rose  without  the  aid  of  dressing-case  and  tiring 
equipage ;  and,  having  gradually  forgotten  through 
these  means  the  discomforts  of  an  indifferent  night 
and  an  early  ride,  was  in  a  state  of  perfect  com¬ 
placency,  indolence,  and  satisfaction. 

The  situation  in  which  he  found  himself,  indeed, 
was  particularly  favorable  to  the  growth  of  these 
feelings ;  for,  not  to  mention  the  lazy  influence  of  a 
late  and  lonely  breakfast,  with  the  additional  seda¬ 
tive  of  a  newspaper,  there  was  an  air  of  repose  about 
his  place  of  residence  peculiar  to  itself,  and  which 
hangs  about  it,  even  in  these  times,  when  it  is  more 
bustling  and  busy  than  it  was  in  days  of  yore. 

There  are,  still,  worse  places  than  the  Temple,  on 
a  sultry  day,  for  basking  in  the  sun,  or  resting  idly 
in  the  shade.  There  is  yet  a  drowsiness  in  its 
courts,  and  a  dreamy  dullness  in  its  trees  and  gar- 


52 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


dens ;  those  who  pace  its  lanes  and  squares  may  yet 
hear  the  echoes  of  their  footsteps  on  the  sounding 
stones,  and  read  upon  its  gates,  in  passing  from  the 
tumult  of  the  Strand  or  Fleet  Street,  “  Who  enters 
here  leaves  noise  behind.”  There  is  still  the  plash 
of  falling  water  in  fair  Fountain  Court,  and  there  are 
yet  nooks  and  corners  where  dun-haunted  students 
may  look  down  from  their  dusty  garrets,  on  a  va¬ 
grant  ray  of  sunlight  patching  the  shade  of  the  tall 
houses,  and  seldom  troubled  to  reflect  a  passing 
stranger’s  form.  There  is  yet,  in  the  Temple,  some¬ 
thing  of  a  clerkly  monkish  atmosphere,  which  pub¬ 
lic  offices  of  law  have  not  disturbed,  and  even  legal 
firms  have  failed  to  scare  away.  In  summer-time, 
its  pumps  suggest  to  thirsty  idlers,  springs  cooler, 
and  more  sparkling,  and  deeper  than  other  wells; 
and  as  they  trace  the  sp filings  of  full  pitchers  on 
the  heated  ground,  they  snuff  the  freshness,  and, 
sighing,  cast  sad  looks  toward  the  Thames,  and  think 
of  baths  and  boats,  and  saunter  on,  despondent. 

It  was  in  a  room  in  Paper  Buildings — a  row  of 
goodly  tenements,  shaded  in  front  by  ancient  trees, 
and  looking,  at  the  back,  upon  the  Temple  Gardens 
— that  this,  our  idler,  lounged ;  now  taking  up  again 
the  paper  he  had  laid  down  a  hundred  times ;  now 
trifling  with  the  fragments  of  his  meal ;  now  pulling 
forth  liis  golden  tooth-pick,  and  glancing  leisurely 
about  the  room,  or  out  at  window  into  the  trim  gar¬ 
den-walks,  where  a  few  early  loiterers  were  already 
pacing  to  and  fro.  ‘Here  a  pair  of  lovers  met  to 
quarrel  and  make  up ;  there  a  dark-eyed  nursery¬ 
maid  had  better  eyes  for  Templars  than  her  charge  ; 
on  this  hand  an  ancient  spinster,  with  her  lap-dog 
in  a  string,  regarded  both  enormities  with  scornful 
sidelong  looks ;  on  that  a  weazen  old  gentleman, 
ogling  the  nursery -maid,  looked  with  like  scorn 
upon  the  spinster,  and  wondered  she  didn’t  know 
she  was  no  longer  young.  Apart  from  all  these,  on 
the  river’s  margin  two  or  three  couple  of  business 
talkers  walked  slowly  up  and  down  in  earnest  con¬ 
versation  ;  and  one  young  nlan  sat  thoughtfully  on 
a  bench,  alone. 

“Ned  is  amazingly  patient!”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
glancing  at  this  last-named  person  as  he  set  down 
his  tea-cup  and  plied  the  golden  tooth-pick,  “  im¬ 
mensely  patient!  He  was  sitting  yonder  when  I 
began  to  dress,  and  has  scarcely  changed  his  posture 
since.  A  most  eccentric  dog !” 

As  he  spoke,  the  figure  rose,  and  came  toward  him 
with  a  rapid  pace. 

“  Really,  as  if  he  had  heard  me,”  said  the  father, 
resuming  his  newspaper  with  a  yawn.  “Dear  Ned!” 

Presently  the  room  door  opened,  and  the  young 
man  entered ;  to  whom  his  father  gently  waved  his 
hand,  and  smiled. 

“Are  you  at  leisure  for  a  little  conversation,  sir?” 
said  Edward. 

“  Surely,  Ned.  I  am  always  at  leisure.  You  know 
my  constitution. — Have  you  breakfasted?” 

“  Three  hours  ago.” 

“What  a  very  early  dog!”  cried  his  father,  con¬ 
templating  him  from  behind  the  tooth-pick,  with  a 
languid  smile. 

“The  truth  is,”  said  Edward,  bringing  a  chair  for¬ 
ward,  and  seating  himself  near  the  table,  “  that  I  J 
slept  but  ill  last  night,  and  was  glad  to  rise.  The 


cause  of  my  uneasiness  can  not  but  be  known  to 
you,  sir ;  and  it  is  upon  that  I  wish  to  speak.” 

“  My  dear  boy,”  returned  his  father,  “  confide  in 
me,  I  beg.  But  you  know  my  constitution  —  don’t 
be  prosy,  Ned.” 

“  I  will  be  plain,  and  brief,”  said  Edward. 

“  Don’t  say  you  will,  my  good  fellow,”  returned 
his  father,  crossing  his  legs,  “or  you  certainly  will 
not.  You  are  going  to  tell  me — ” 

“Plainly  this,  then,”  said  the  son, with  an  air  of 
great  concern,  “  that  I  know  where  you  were  last 
night — from  being  on  the  spot,  indeed — and  whom 
you  saw,  and  what  your  purpose  was.” 

“You  don’t  say  so!”  cried  his  father.  “I  am  de¬ 
lighted  to  hear  it.  It  saves  us  the  worry,  and  ter¬ 
rible  wear  and  tear  of  a  long  explanation,  and  is  a 
great  relief  for  both.  At  the  very  house!  Why 
didn’t  you  come  up  ?  I  should  have  been  charmed 
to  see  you.” 

“  I  knew  that  what  I  had  to  say  would  be  better 
said  after  a  night’s  reflection,  when  both  of  us  were 
cool,”  returned  the  son. 

“  ’Fore  Gad,  Ned,  rejoined  the  father,  “  I  was  cool 
enough  last  night.  That  detestable  Maypole  ?  By 
some  infernal  contrivance  of  the  builder,  it  holds  the 
wind,  and  keeps  it  fresh.  You  remember  the  sharp 
east  wind  that  blew  so  hard  five  weeks  ago  ?  I  give 
you  my  honor  it  was  rampant  in  that  old  house  last 
night,  though  out-of-doors  there  was  a  dead  calm. 
But  you  were  saying — ” 

“  I  was  about  to  say,  Heaven  knows  how  seriously 
and  earnestly,  that  you  have  niade  me  wretched,  sir. 
Will  you  hear  me  gravely  for  a  moment?” 

“My  dear  Ned,”  said  his  father,  “I  will  hear  you 
with  the  j>atience  of  an  anchorite.  Oblige  me  with 
the  milk.” 

“  I  saw  Miss  Haredale  last  night,”  Edward  re¬ 
sumed  when  he  had  complied  with  this  request ; 
“  her  uncle,  in  her  presence,  immediately  after  your 
interview,  and,  as  of  course  I  know,  in  consequence 
of  it,  forbade  me  the  house,  and,  with  circumstances 
of  indignity  which  are  of  your  creation  1  am  sure, 
commanded  me  to  leave  it  on  the  instant.” 

“  For  his  manner  of  doing  so,  I  give  you  my  honor, 
Ned,  I  am  not  accountable,”  said  his  father.  “  That 
you  must  excuse.  He  is  a  mere  boor,  a  log,  a  brute, 
with  no  address  in  life. — Positively  a  fly  in  the  jug. 
The  first  I  have  seen  this  year.” 

Edward  rose,  and  paced  the  room.  His  impertur¬ 
bable  parent  sipped  his  tea. 

“  Father,”  said  the  young  man,  stopping  at  length 
before  him,  “  we  must  not  trifle  in  this  matter.  We 
must  not  deceive  each  other,  or  ourselves.  Let  me 
pursue  the  manly  open  part  I  wish  to  take,  and  do 
not  repel  me  by  this  unkind  indifference.” 

“  Whether  I  am  indifferent  or  no,”  returned  the 
other,  “  I  leave  you,  my  dear  boy,  to  judge.  A  ride 
of  twenty-five  or  thirty  miles,  through  miry  roads — 
a  Maypole  dinner— a  tete-a-tete  with  Haredale,  which, 
vanity  apart,  was  quite  a  Valentine  and  Orson  busi¬ 
ness — a  Maypole  bed — a  Maypole  landlord,  and  a 
Maypole  retinue  of  idiots  and  centaurs :  whether  the 
voluntary  endurance  of  these  things  looks  like  in¬ 
difference,  dear  Ned,  or  like  the  excessive  anxiety, 
and  devotion,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  of  a  parent, 
you  shall  determine  for  yourself.” 


FAMILY  AFFAIRS. 


53 


“I  wish  you  to  consider,  sir,”  said  Edward,  “in 
what  a  cruel  situation  I  am  placed.  Loving  Miss 
Haredale  as  I  do — ” 

“  My  dear  fellow,”  interrupted  his  father,  with  a 
compassionate  smile,  “you  do  nothing  of  the  kind. 
You  don’t  know  any  thing  about  it.  There’s  no 
such  thing,  I  assure  you.  Now,  do  take  my  word 
for  it.  You  have  good  sense,  Ned — great  good  sense. 
I  wonder  you  should  be  guilty  of  such  amazing  ab¬ 
surdities.  You  really  surprise  me.” 

“  I  repeat,”  said  his  son,  firmly,  “that  I  love  her. 
You  have  interposed  to  part  us,  and  have,  to  the  ex¬ 
tent  I  have  just  now  told  you  of,  succeeded.  May  I 


induce  you,  sir,  in  time,  to  think  more  favorably  of 
our  attachment,  or  is  it  your  intention  and  your  fix¬ 
ed  design  to  hold  us  asunder  if  you  can  ?” 

“My  dear  Ned,”  returned  the  father,  taking  a 
pinch  of  snuff  and  pushing  his  box  toward  him, 
“  that  is  my  purpose  most  undoubtedly.” 

“The  time  that  has  elapsed,”  rejoined  his  son, 
“since  I  began  to  know  her  worth,  has  flown  in 
such  a  dream  that  until  now  I  have  hardly  once 
paused  to  reflect  upon  my  true  position.  What  is 
it  ?  From  my  childhood  I  have  been  accustomed  to 
luxury  and  idleness,  and  have  been  bred  as  though 
my  fortune  were  large,  and  my  expectations  almost 
without  a  limit.  The  idea  of  wealth  has  been  famil¬ 


iarized  to  me  from  my  cradle.  I  liaye  been  taught 
to  look  upon  those  means,  by  which  men  raise  them¬ 
selves  to  riches  and  distinction,  as  being  beyond  my 
breeding,  and  beneath  my  care.  I  have  been,  as  the 
phrase  is,  liberally  educated,  and  am  fit  for  nothing. 
I  find  myself  at  last  wholly  dependent  upon  you, 
with  no  resource  but  in  your  favor.  In  this  mo¬ 
mentous  question  of  my  life  we  do  not,  and  it  would 
seem  we  never  can,  agree.  I  have  shrunk  instinct¬ 
ively  alike  from  those  to  whom  you  have  urged  me 
to  pay  court,  and  from  the  motives  of  interest  and 
gain  w.hich  have  rendered  them  in  your  eyes  visible 
objects  for  my  suit.  If  there  never  has  been  thus 


much  plain-speaking  between  us  before,  sir,  the 
fault  has  not  been  mine,  indeed.  If  I  seem  to  speak 
too  plainly  now,  it  is,  believe  me,  father,  in  the  hope 
that  there  may  be  a  franker  spirit,  a  worthier  reli¬ 
ance,  and  a  kinder  confidence  between  us  in  time  to 
come.” 

“My  good  fellow,”  said  his  smiling  father,  “you 
quite  affect  me.  Go  on,  my  dear  Edward,  I  beg. 
But  remember  your  promise.  There  is  great  ear¬ 
nestness,  vast  candor,  a  manifest  sincerity  in  all  you 
say,  but  I  fear  I  observe  the  faintest  indications  of 
a  tendency  to  prose.” 

“  I  am  very  sorry,  sir.” 

“  I  am  very  sorry,  too,  Ned,  but  you  know  that  I 


54 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


can  not  fix  my  mind  for  any  long  period  upon  one 
subject.  If  you’ll  come  to  the  poiut  at  once,  I’ll 
imagine  all  that  ought  to  go  before,  and  conclude  it 
said.  Oblige  me  with  the  milk  again.  Listening, 
invariably  makes  me  feverish.” 

“  What  I  would  say  then,  tends  to  this,”  said  Ed¬ 
ward.  “  I  can  not  bear  this  absolute  dependence,  sir, 
even  upon  you.  Time  has  been  lost  and  opportuni¬ 
ty  thrown  away,  but  I  am  yet  a  young  man  and  may 
retrieve  it.  Will  you  give  me  the  means  of  devoting 
such  abilities  and  energies  as  I  possess,  to  some  wor¬ 
thy  pursuit  ?  Will  you  let  me  try  to  make  for  my¬ 
self  an  honorable  path  in  life  ?  For  any  term  you 
please  to  name — say  for  five  years  if  you  will — I 
will  pledge  myself  to  move  no  further  in  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  our  difference  without  your  fall  concurrence. 
During  that  period,  I  will  endeavor  earnestly  and 
patiently,  if  ever  man  did,  to  open  some  prospect  for 
myself,  and  free  you  from  the  burden  you  fear  I 
should  become  if  I  married  one  whose  worth  and 
beauty  are  her  chief  endowments.  Will  you  do  this, 
sir?  At  the  expiration  of  the  term  we  agree  upon, 
let  us  discuss  this  subject  again.  Till  then,  unless 
it  is  revived  by  you,  let  it  never  be  renewed  be¬ 
tween  us.” 

“  My  dear  Ned,”  returned  his  father,  laying  down 
the  newspaper  at  which  he  had  been  glancing  care¬ 
lessly,  and  throwing  himself  back  in  the  window- 
seat,  “ 1  believe  you  know  how  very  much  I  dislike 
what  are  called  family  affairs,  which  are  only  fit  for 
plebeian  Christmas -days,  and  have  no  manner  of 
business  with  people  of  our  condition.  But  as  you 
are  proceeding  upon  a  mistake,  Ned — altogether  upon 
a  mistake— I  will  conquer  my  repugnance  to  enter¬ 
ing  on  such  matters,  and  give  you  a  perfectly  plain 
and  candid  answer,  if  you  will  do  me  the  favor  to 
shut  the  door.” 

Edward  having  obeyed  him,  he  took  an  elegant 
little  knife  from  his  pocket,  and  paring  his  nails, 
continued : 

“  You  have  to  thank  me,  Ned,  for  being  of  good 
family ;  for  your  mother,  charming  person  as  she 
was,  and  almost  broken-hearted,  and  so  forth,  as  she 
left  me,  when  she  was  prematurely  compelled  to  be¬ 
come  immortal — had  nothing  to  boast  of  in  that 
respect.” 

“  Her  father  was  at  least  an  eminent  lawyer,  sir,” 
said  Edward. 

“  Quite  right,  Ned  ;  perfectly  so.  He  stood  high 
at  the  bar,  had  a  great  name  and  great  wealth,  but 
having  risen  from  nothing — I  have  always  closed 
my  eyes  to  the  circumstance  and  steadily  resisted 
its  contemplation,  but  I  fear  his  father  dealt  in  pork, 
and  that  his  business  did  once  involve  cow-heel  and 
sausages — he  wished  to  marry  his  daughter  into  a 
good  family.  He  had  his  heart’s  desire,  Ned.  I  was 
a  younger  son’s  younger  son,  and  I  married  her.  We 
each  had  our  object,  and  gained  it.  She  stepped  at 
once  into  the  politest  and  best  circles,  and  I  stepped 
into  a  fortune  which  I  assure  you  was  very  necessary 
to  my  comfort — quite  indispensable.  Now,  my  good 
fellow,  that  fortune  is  among  the  things  that  have 
been.  It  is  gone,  Ned,  and  has  been  gone — how  old 
are  you  ?  I  always  forget.” 

“  Seven-and-twenty,  sir.” 

“Are  you  indeed?”  cried  his  father,  raising  his 


eyelids  in  a  languishing  surprise.  “  So  much !  Then 
I  should  say,  Ned,  that  as  nearly  as  I  remember,  its 
skirts  vanished  from  human  knowledge  about  eight¬ 
een  or  nineteen  years  ago.  It  was  about  that  time 
when  I  came  to  live  in  these  chambers  (once  your 
grandfather’s,  and  bequeathed  by  that  extremely  re¬ 
spectable  person  to  me),  and  commenced  to  live 
upon  an  inconsiderable  annuity  and  my  past  repu¬ 
tation.” 

“  You  are  jesting  with  me,  sir,”  said  Edward. 

“Not  in  the  slightest  degree,  I  assure  you,”  re¬ 
turned  his  father  with  great  composure.  “These 
family  topics  are  so  extremely  dry,  that  I  am  sorry 
to  say  they  don’t  admit  of  any  such  relief.  It  is  for 
that  reason,  and  because  they  have  an  appearance 
of  business,  that  I  dislike  them  so  very  much.  Well ! 
You  know  the  rest.  A  son,  Ned,  unless  he  is  old 
enough  to  be  a  companion — that  is  to  say,  unless  he 
is  some  two  or  three  and  twenty — is  not  the  kind  of 
thing  to  have  about  one.  He  is  a  restraint  upon  his 
father,  his  father  is  a  restraint  upon  him,  and  they 
make  each  other  mutually  uncomfortable.  There¬ 
fore,  until  within  the  last  four  years  or  so — I  have  a 
poor  memory  for  dates,  and  if  I  mistake,  you  will 
correct  me  in  your  own  mind — you  pursued  your 
studies  at  a  distance,  and  picked  up  a  great  variety 
of  accomplishments.  Occasionally  we  passed  a  week 
or  two  together  here,  and  disconcerted  each  other 
as  only  such  near  relations  can.  At  last  you  came 
home.  I  candidly  tell  you,  my  dear  boy,  that  if  you 
had  been  awkward  and  overgrown,  I  should  have- 
exported  you  to  some  distant  part  of  the  world.” 

“  I  wish  with  all  my  soul  you  had,  sir,”  said  Ed¬ 
ward. 

“  No  you  don’t,  Ned,”  said  his  father,  coolly ;  “  you 
are  mistaken,  I  assure  you.  I  found  you  a  handsome, 
prepossessing,  elegant  fellow,  and  I  threw  you  into 
the  society  I  can  still  command.  Having  done  that, 
my  dear  fellow,  I  consider  that  I  have  provided  for 
you  in  life,  and  rely  upon  your  doing  something  to 
provide  for  me  in  return.” 

“  I  do  not  understand  your  meaning,  sir.” 

“  My  meaning,  Ned,  is  obvious — 1  observe  another 
fly  in  the  cream-jug,  but  have  the  goodness  not  to 
take  it  out  as  you  did  the  first,  for  their  walk  when 
their  legs  are  milky,  is  extremely  ungraceful  and  dis¬ 
agreeable —  my  meaning  is,  that  you  must  do  as  I 
did ;  that  you  must  marry  well  and  make  the  most 
of  yourself.” 

“A  mere  fortune-hunter!”  cried  the  son,  indig¬ 
nantly. 

“What  in  the  devil’s  name,  Ned,  would  you  be!” 
returned  the  father.  “All  men  are  fortune-hunters, 
are  they  not  ?  The  law,  the  church,  the  court,  the 
camp — see  how  they  are  all  crowded  with  fortune- 
hunters,  jostling  each  other  in  the  pursuit.  The 
Stock  Exchange,  the  pulpit,  the  counting-house,  the 
royal  drawing-room,  the  senate — what  but.  fortune- 
hunters  are  they  filled  with?  A  fortune-hunter! 
Yes.  You  are  one;  and  you  would  be  nothing  else, 
my  dear  Ned,  if  you  were  the  greatest  courtier,  law¬ 
yer,  legislator,  prelate,  or  merchant  in  existence.  If 
you  are  squeamish  and  moral,  Ned,  console  yourself 
with  the  reflection  that  at  the  very  worst  your  for¬ 
tune-hunting  can  make  but  one  person  miserable  or 
unhappy.  How  many  people  do  you  suppose  these 


A  PARENTS  BLESSING. 


55 


other  kinds  of  huntsmen  crush  in  following  their 
sport — hundreds  at  a  step  ?  Or  thousands  ?” 

The  young  man  leaned  his  head  upon  his  hand, 
and  made  no  answer. 

“ 1  am  quite  charmed,”  said  the  father,  rising,  and 
walking  slowly  to  and  fro — stopping  now  and  then 
to  glance  at  himself  in  the  mirror,  or  survey  a  pic¬ 
ture  through  his  glass,  with  the  air  of  a  connoisseur, 
“that  we  have  had  this  conversation,  Ned,  unprom¬ 
ising  as  it  was.  It  establishes  a  confidence  between 
us  which  is  quite  delightful,  and  was  certainly  nec¬ 
essary,  though  how  you  can  ever  have  mistaken  our 
positions  and  designs,  I  confess  I  can  not  understand. 
I  conceived,  until  I  found  your  fancy  for  this  girl, 
that  all  these  points  were  tacitly  agreed  upon  be¬ 
tween  us.” 

“  I  knew  you  were  embarrassed,  sir,”  returned  the 
son,  raising  his  head  for  a  moment,  and  then  falling 
into  his  former  attitude, “  but  I  had  no  idea  we  were 
the  beggared  wretches  you  describe.  How  could  I 
suppose  it,  bred  as  I  have  been ;  witnessing  the  life 
you  have  always  led ;  and  the  appearance  you  have 
always  made  ?” 

“  My  dear  child,”  said  the  father — “  for  you  really 
talk  so  like  a  child  that  I  must  call  you  one — you 
were  bred  upon  a  careful  principle ;  the  very  man¬ 
ner  of  your  education,  I  assure  you,  maintained  my 
credit  surprisingly.  As  to  the  life  I  lead,  I  must 
lead  it,  Ned.  I  must  have  these  little  refinements 
about  me.  I  have  always  been  used  to  them,  and  I 
can  not  exist  without  them.  They  must  surround 
me,  you  observe,  and  therefore  they  are  here.  With 
regard  to  our  circumstances,  Ned,  you  may  set  your 
mind  at  rest  uj>on  that  score.  They  are  desperate. 
Your  own  appearance  is  by  no  means  despicable, 
and  our  joint  pocket-money  alone  devours  our  in¬ 
come.  That’s  the  truth.” 

“  Why  have  I  never  known  this  before  ?  Why 
have  you  encouraged  me,  sir,  to  an  expenditure  and 
mode  of  life  to  which  we  have  no  right  or  title  ?” 

“  My  good  fellow,”  returned  his-  father  more  com¬ 
passionately  than  ever,  “  if  you  made  no  appearance, 
how  could  you  possibly  succeed  in  the  pursuit  for 
which  I  destined  you  ?  As  to  our  mode  of  life,  ev¬ 
ery  man  has  a  right  to  live  in  the  best  way  he  can  ; 
and  to  make  himself  as  comfortable  as  he  can,  or  he 
is  an  unnatural  scoundrel.  Our  debts,  I  grant,  are 
very  great,  and  therefore  it  the  more  behooves  you, 
as  a  young  man  of  principle  and  honor,  to  pay  them 
off  as  speedily  as  possible.” 

“  The  villain’s  part,”  muttered  Edward,  “  that  I 
have  unconsciously  played!  I  to  win  the  heart  of 
Emma  Haredale !  I  would,  for  her  sake,  I  had  died 
first !” 

“I  am  glad  you  see,  Ned,”  returned  his  father, 
“how  perfectly  self-evident  it  is,  that  nothing  can 
be  done  in  that  quarter.  But  apart  from  this,  and 
the  necessity  of  your  speedily  bestowing  yourself  on 
another  (as  you  know  you  could  to-morrow,  if  you 
chose),  I  wish  you’d  look  upon  it  pleasantly.  In  a 
religious  point  of  view  aldne,  how  could  you  ever 
think  of  uniting  yourself  to  a  Catholic,  unless  she 
was  amazingly  rich  ?  You  ought  to  be  so  very  Prot¬ 
estant,  coming  of  such  a  Protestant  family  as  you 
do.  Let  us  be  moral,  Ned,  or  we  are  nothing.  Even 
if  one  could  set  that  objection  aside,  which  is  impos¬ 


sible,  we  come  to  another  which  is  quite  conclusive. 
The  very  idea  of  marrying  a  girl  whose  father  was 
killed,  like  meat!  Good  God,  Ned,  how  disagree¬ 
able  !  Consider  the  impossibility  of  having  any  re¬ 
spect  for  your  father-in-law  under  such  unpleasant 
circumstances — think  of  his  having  been  ‘  viewed’ 
by  jurors,  and  ‘  sat  upon’  by  coroners,  and  of  his 
very  doubtful  position  in  the  family  ever  afterward. 
It  seems  to  me  such  an  indelicate  sort  of  thing  that 
I  really  think  the  girl  ought  to  have  been  put  to 
death  by  the  State  to  prevent  its  happening.  But 
I  tease  you  perhaps.  You  would  rather  be  alone  ? 
My  dear  Ned,  most  willingly.  God  bless  you.  I 
shall  be  going  out  presently,  but  we  shall  meet  to¬ 
night,  or  if  not  to-night,  certainly  to-morrow.  Take 
care  of  yourself  in  the  mean  time,  for  both  our  sakes. 
You  are  a  person  of  great  consequence  to  me,  Ned — 
of  vast  consequence  indeed.  God  bless  you !” 

With  these  words,  the  father,  who  had  been  ar¬ 
ranging  his  cravat  in  the  glass,  while  he  uttered 
them  in  a  disconnected  careless  manner,  withdrew, 
humming  a  tune  as  he  went.  The  son,  who  had  ap¬ 
peared  so  lost  in  thought  as  not  to  hear  or  under¬ 
stand  them,  remained  quite  still  and  silent.  After 
the  lapse  of  half  an  hour  or  so,  the  elder  Chester, 
gayly  dressed,  wrent  out.  The  younger  still  sat  with 
his  head  resting  on  his  hands,  in  what  appeared  to 
be  a  kind  of  stupor. 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

A  SERIES  of  pictures  representing  the  streets  of 
London  in  the  night,  even  at  the  comparative¬ 
ly  recent  date  of  this  tale,  would  present  to  the  eye 
something  so  very  different  in  character  from  the 
reality  which  is  witnessed  in  these  times,  that  it 
would  be  difficult  for  the  beholder  to  recognize  his 
most  familiar  walks  in  the  altered  aspect  of  little 
more  than  half  a  century  ago. 

They  were,  one  and  all,  from  the  broadest  and  best 
to  the  narrowest  and  least  frequented,  very  dark. 
The  oil  and  cotton  lamps,  though  regularly  trimmed 
twice  or  thrice  in  the  long  winter  nights,  burned  fee¬ 
bly  at  the  best ;  and  at  a  late  hour,  when  they  were 
unassisted  by  the  lamps  and  candles  in  the  shops, 
cast  but  a  narrow  track  of  doubtful  light  upon  the 
footway,  leaving  the  projecting  doors  and  house- 
fronts  in  the  deepest  gloom.  Many  of  the  courts 
and  lanes  were  left  in  total  darkness ;  those  of  the 
meaner  sort,  where  one  glimmering  light  twinkled 
for  a  score  of  houses,  being  favored  in  no  slight  de¬ 
gree.  Even  in  these  places,  the  inhabitants  had  oft¬ 
en  good  reason  for  extinguishing  their  lamp  as  soon 
as  it  was  lighted ;  and  the  watch  being  utterly  in¬ 
efficient  and  powerless  to  prevent  them,  they  did  so 
at  their  pleasure.  Thus,  in  the  lightest  thorough¬ 
fares,  there  was  at  every  turn  some  obscure  and  dan¬ 
gerous  spot  whither  a  thief  might  fly  for  shelter, 
and  few  would  care  to  follow ;  and  the  city  being 
belted  round  by  fields,  green  lanes,  waste  grounds, 
and  lonely  roads,  dividing  it  at  that  time  from  the 
suburbs  that  have  joined  it  since,  escape,  even  where 
the  pursuit  was  hot,  was  rendered  easy. 

It  is  no  wonder  that  with  these  favoring  circum- 


56 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


stances  in  full  and  constant  operation ,  street  rob¬ 
beries,  often  accompanied  by  cruel  wounds,  and  not 
unfrequently  by  loss  of  life,  should  have  been  of 
nightly  occurrence  in  the  very  heart  of  London,  or 
that  quiet  folks  should  have  had  great  d>ead  of 
traversing  its  streets  after  the  shops  were  closed. 
It  was  not  unusual  for  those  who  wended  home 
alone  at  midnight,  to  keep  the  middle  of  the  road, 
the  better  to  guard  against  surprise  from  lurking 
foot-pads ;  few  would  venture  to  repair  at  a  late 
hour  to  Kentish  Town  or  Hampstead,  or  even  to 
Kensington  or  Chelsea,  unarmed  and  unattended ; 
while  he  who  had  been  loudest  and  most  valiant  at 
the  supper-table  or  the  tavern,  and  had  but  a  mile 
or  so  to  go,  was  glad  to  fee  a  linkboy  to  escort  him 
home. 

There  were  many  other  characteristics — not  quite 
so  disagreeable  —  about  the  thoroughfares  of  Lon¬ 
don  then,  with  which  they  had  been  long  familiar. 
Some  of  the  shops,  especially  those  to  the  eastward 
of  Temple  Bar,  still  adhered  to  the  old  practice  of 
hanging  out  a  sign  ;  and  the  creaking  and  swinging 
of  these  boards  in  their  iron  frames  on  windy  nights, 
formed  a  strange  and  mournful  concert  for  the  ears 
of  those  who  lay  awake  in  bed  or  hurried  through 
the  streets.  Long  stands  of  hackney -chairs  and 
groups  of  chairmen,  compared  with  whom  the  coach¬ 
men  of  our  day  are  gentle  and  polite,  obstructed  the 
way  and  filled  the  air  with  clamor ;  night-cellars,  in¬ 
dicated  by  a  little  stream  of  light  crossing  the  pave¬ 
ment,  and  stretching  out  half-way  into  the  road, 
and  by  the  stifled  roar  of  voices  from  below,  yawned 
for  the  reception  and ,  entertainment  of  the  most 
abandoned  of  both  sexes ;  under  every  shed  and  bulk 
small  groups  of  linkboys  gamed  away  the  earnings 
of  the  day ;  or  one  more  weary  than  the  rest,  gave 
way  to  sleep,  and  let  the  fragment  of  his  torch  fall 
hissing  on  the  puddled  ground. 

Then  there  was  the  watch  with  staff  and  lantern 
crying  the  hour,  and  the  kind  of  weather  ;  and  those 
who  woke  up  at  his  voice  and  turned  them  round  in 
bed,  were  glad  to  hear  it  rained,  or  snowed,  or  blew, 
or  froze,  for  very  comfort’s  sake.  The  solitary  pas¬ 
senger  was  startled  by  the  chairmen’s  cry  of  “By 
your  leave  there !”  as  two  came  trotting  past  him 
with  their  empty  vehicle — carried  backward  to  show 
its  being  disengaged  —  and  hurried  to  the  nearest 
stand.  Many  a  private  chair,  too,  inclosing  some 
fine  lady,  monstrously  hooped  and  furbelowed,  and 
preceded  by  running  footmen  bearing  flambeaux — 
for  which  extinguishers  are  yet  suspended  before  the 
doors  of  a  few  houses  of  the  better  sort — made  the 
way  gay  and  light  as  it  danced  along,  and  darker 
and  more  dismal  when  it  had  passed.  It  was  not 
unusual  for  these  running  gentry,  who  carried  it 
with  a  very  high  hand,  to  quarrel  in  the  servants’ 
hall  while  waiting  for  their  masters  and  mistresses; 
and,  falling  to  blows  either  there  or  in  the  street 
without,  to  strew  the  place  of  skirmish  with  hair- 
powder,  fragments  of  bag-wigs,  and  scattered  nose¬ 
gays.  Gaming, the  vice  which  ran  so  high  among  all 
classes  (the  fashion  being  of  course  set  by  the  upper), 
was  generally  the  cause  of  these  disputes ;  for  cards 
and  dice  were  as  openly  used,  and  worked  as  much 
mischief,  and  yielded  as  much  excitement  below 
stairs,  as  above.  While  incidents  like  these,  arising 


out  of  drums  and  masquerades  and  parties  at  qua¬ 
drille,  were  passing  at  the  west  end  of  the  town, 
heavy  stage-coaches  and  scarce  heavier  wagons  were 
lumbering  slowly  toward  the  city,  the  coachmen, 
guard,  and  passengers,  armed  to  the  teeth,  and  the 
coach — a  day  or  so  perhaps  behind  its  time,  but  that 
was  nothing — despoiled  by  highwaymen ;  who  made 
no  scruple  to  attack,  alone  and  single-handed,  a 
whole  caravan  of  goods  and  men,  and  sometimes 
shot  a  passenger  or  two,  and  were  sometimes  shot 
themselves,  as  the  case  might  be.  On  the  morrow, 
rumors  of  this  new  act  of  daring  on  the  road  yield¬ 
ed  matter  for  a  few  hours’  conversation  through  the 
town,  and  a  Public  Progress  of  some  fine  gentleman 
(half  drunk)  to  Tyburn,  dressed  in  the  newest  fash¬ 
ion,  and  damning  the  ordinary  with  unspeakable 
gallantry  and  grace,  furnished  to  the  populace,  at 
once  a  pleasant  excitement  and  a  wholesome  and 
profound  example. 

Among  all  the  dangerous  characters  who,  in  such 
a  state  of  society,  prowled  and  skulked  in  the  me¬ 
tropolis  at  night,  there  was  one  man  from  wdiom 
many  as  uncouth  and  fierce  as  he  shrank  with  an  in¬ 
voluntary  dread.  Who  he  was,  or  whence  he  came, 
w  as  a  question  often  asked,  but  which  none  could  an¬ 
swer.  His  name  was  unknown,  he  had  never  been 
seen  until  within  about  eight  days  or  thereabouts, 
and  was  equally  a  stranger  to  the  old  ruffians,  upon 
whose  haunts  he  ventured  fearlessly,  as  to  the  young. 
He  could  be  no  spy,  for  he  never  removed  his  slouch¬ 
ed  hat  to  look  about  him,  entered  into  conversation 
with  no  man,  heeded  nothing  that  passed,  listened 
to  no  discourse,  regarded  nobody  that  came  or  went. 
But  so  surely  as  the  dead  of  night  set  in,  so  surely 
this  man  was  in  the  midst  of  the  loose  concourse  in 
the  night-cellar  where  outcasts  of  every  grade  re¬ 
sorted  ;  and  there  he  sat  till  morning. 

He  was  not  only  a  spectre  at  their  licentious 
feasts ;  a  something  in  the  midst  of  their  revelry 
and  riot  that  chilled  and  haunted  them  ;  but  out-of- 
doors  he  was  the  same.  Directly  it  was  dark,  he 
was  abroad — never  in  company  with  any  one,  but 
always  alone ;  never  lingering  or  loitering,  but  al¬ 
ways  walking  swiftly ;  and  looking  (so  they  said 
who  had  seen  him)  over  his  shoulder  from  time  to 
time,  and  as  he  did  so  quickening  his  pace.  In  the 
fields,  the  lanes,  the  roads,  in  all  quarters  of  the 
towrn — east,  west,  north,  and  south — that  man  was 
seen  gliding  on  like  a  shadow.  He  was  always  hur¬ 
rying  away.  Those  who  encountered  him,  saw  him 
steal  past,  caught  sight  of  the  backward  glance,  and 
so  lost  him  in  the  darkness. 

This  constant  restlessness,  and  flitting  to  and  fro, 
gave  rise  to  strange  stories.  He  was  seen  in  such 
distant  and  remote  places,  at  times  so  nearly  tally¬ 
ing  with  each  other,  that  some  doubted  whether 
there  were  not  two  of  them,  or  more — some,  whether 
he  had  not  unearthly  means  of  traveling  from  spot 
to  spot.  The  foot-pad  hiding  in  a  ditch  had  marked 
him  passing  like  a  ghost  along  its  brink ;  the  va¬ 
grant  had  met  him  on  the  dark  high-road  ;  the  beg¬ 
gar  had  seen  him  pause  upon  the  bridge  to  look 
down  at  the  water,  and  then  sweep  on  again ;  they 
who  dealt  in  bodies  with  the  surgeons  could  swear 
he  slept  in  church-yards,  and  that  they  had  beheld 
him  glide  away  among  the  tombs  on  their  approach. 


THE  MYSTERIOUS  STRANGER. 


57 


And  as  they  told  these  stories  to  each  other,  one  who 
had  looked  about  him  would  pull  his  neighbor  by 
the  sleeve,  and  there  he  would  be  among  them. 

At  last,  oue  man — he  was  one  of  those  whose  com¬ 
merce  lay  among  the  graves — resolved  to  question 
this  strange  companion.  Next  night,  when  he  had 
eat  his  poor  meal  voraciously  (he  was  accustomed 
to  do  that,  they  had  observed,  as  though  he  had  no 
other  iu  the  day),  this  fellow  sat  down  at  his  elbow. 

“A  black  night,  master !” 

“  It  is  a  black  night.” 

“  Blacker  than  last,  though  that  wras  pitchy,  too. 
Didn’t  I  pass  you  near  the  turnpike  in  the  Oxford 
Road  ?” 

“  It’s  like. you  may.  I  don’t  knowT.” 


“  Come,  come,  master,”  cried  the  fellow,  urged  on 
by  the  looks  of  his  comrades,  and  slapping  him  on 
the  shoulder;  “be  more  companionable  and  commu¬ 
nicative.  Be  more  the  gentleman  in  this  good  com¬ 
pany.  There  are  tales  among  us  that  you  have  sold 
yourself  to  the  devil,  and  I  knowT  not  wThat.” 

“We  all  have,  have  wre  not?”  returned  the  stran¬ 
ger,  looking  up.  “  If  wre  were  fewer  in  number,  per¬ 
haps  he  would  give  better  wages.” 

“  It  goes  rather  hard  with  you,  indeed,”  said  the 
fellow,  as  the  stranger  disclosed  his  haggard  un¬ 
washed  face,  and  torn  clothes.  “  What  of  that  ?  Be 
merry,  master.  A  stave  of  a  roaring  song  now — ” 

“  Sing  you,  if  you  desire  to  hear  one,”  replied  the 
other,  shaking  him  roughly  off;  “and  don’t  touch 


me  if  you’re  a  prudent  man ;  I  carry  arms  which 
go  off  easily — they  have  done  so,  before  now — and 
make  it  dangerous  for  strangers  who  don’t  know 
the  trick  of  them,  to  lay  hands  upon  me.” 

“  Do  you  threaten  ?”  said  the  fellow. 

“  Yes,”  returned  the  other,  rising  and  turning 
upon  him,  and  looking  fiercely  round  as  if  in  appre¬ 
hension  of  a  general  attack. 

His  voice,  and  look,  and  bearing — all  expressive 
of  the  wildest  recklessness  and  desperation — daunt¬ 
ed  vrhile  they  repelled  the  by-standers.  Although 
in  a  very  different  sphere  of  action  now,  they  wrere 
not  without  much  of  the  effect  they  had  wrought  at 
the  Maypole  Inn. 

“  I  am  what  you  all  are,  and  live  as  you  all  do,” 


said  the  man  sternly,  after  a  short  silence.  “  I  am 
in  hiding  here  like  the  rest,  and  if  we  were  sur¬ 
prised  would  perhaps  do  my  part  with  the  best  of 
ye.  If  it’s  my  humor  to  be  left  to  myself,  let  me 
have  it.  Otherwise  ” — and  here  he  swore  a  tremen¬ 
dous  oath — “  there’ll  be  mischief  done  in  this  place, 
though  there  are  odds  of  a  score  against  me.” 

A  low  murmur,  having  its  origin  perhaps  in  a 
dread  of  the  man  and  the  mystery  that  surrounded 
him,  or  perhaps  in  a  sincere  opinion  on  the  part  of 
some  of  those  present,  that  it  would  be  au  inconven¬ 
ient  precedent  to  meddle  too  curiously  with  a  gen¬ 
tleman’s  private  affairs  if  he  saw  reason  to  conceal 
them,  warned  the  fellow  who  had  occasioned  this 
discussion  that  he  had  best  pursue  it  no  further. 


COME,  GOME,  MASTER,”  CRIED  THE  FELLOW,  URGED  ON  BY  THE  LOOKS  OF  HIS  COMRADES,  AND  SLABBING  HIM  ON  T1IE  SHOULDER,  “liE 
MORE  COMPANIONABLE  AND  COMMUNICATIVE.  BE  MORE  THE  GENTLEMAN  IN  THIS  GOOD  COMPANY.” 


58 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


After  a  short  time  the  strange  man  lay  clown  upon 
a  bench  to  sleep,  and  when  they  thought  of  him 
again,  they  found  he  was  gone. 

Next  night,  as  soon  as  it  was  dark,  he  was  abroad 
again,  and  traversing  the  streets  ;  he  was  before  the 
lock-smith’s  house  more  than  once,  but  the  family 
were  out,  and  it  was  close  shut.  This  night  he 
crossed  London  Bridge  and  passed  into  Southwark. 
As  he  glided  down  a  by -street,  a  woman  with  a 
little  basket  on  her  arm,  turned  into  it  at  the  other 
end.  Directly  he  observed  her,  he  sought  the  shel¬ 
ter  of  an  archway,  and  stood  aside  until  she  had 
passed.  Then  he  emerged  cautiously  from  his  hid¬ 
ing-place,  and  followed. 

She  went  into  several  shops  to  purchase  various 
kinds  of  household  necessaries,  and  round  every 
place  at  which  she  stopped  he  hovered  like  her  evil 
spirit ;  following  her  when  she  re-appeared.  It  was 
nigh  eleven  o’clock,  and  the  passengers  in  the  streets 
were  thinning  fast,  when  she  turned,  doubtless  to 
go  home.  The  phantom  still  followed  her. 

She  turned  into  the  same  by-street  in  which  he 
had  seen  her  first,  which,  being  free  from  shops,  and 
narrow,  was  extremely  dark.  She  quickened  her 
pace  here,  as  though  distrustful  of  being  stopped, 
and  robbed  of  such  trifling  property  as  she  carried 
with  her.  He  crept  along  on  the  other  side  of  the 
road.  Had  she  been  gifted  with  the  speed  of  wind, 
it  seemed  as  if  his  terrible  shadow  would  have 
tracked  her  down. 

At  length  the  widow — for  she  it  was — reached 
her  own  door,  and,  panting  for  breath,  paused  to 
take  the  key  from  her  basket.  In  a  flush  and  glow, 
with  the  haste  she  had  made,  and  the  pleasure 
of  being  safe  at  home,  she  stooped  to  draw  it  out, 
when,  raising  her  head,  she  saw  him  standing  silent¬ 
ly  beside  her;  the  apparition  of  a  dream. 

His  hand  was  on  her  mouth,  but  that  was  need¬ 
less,  for  her  tongue  clove  to  its  roof,  and  her  power 
of  utterance  was  gone.  “  I  have  been  looking  for 
you  many  nights.  Is  the  house  empty?  Answer 
me.  Is  any  one  inside  ?” 

She  could  only  answer  by  a  rattle  in  her  throat. 

“  Make  me  a  sign.” 

She  seemed  to  indicate  that  there  was  no  one 
there.  He  took  the  key,  unlocked  the  door,  carried 
her  in,  and  secured  it  carefully  behind  them. 

♦ - 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

IT  was  a  chilly  night,  and  the  fire  in  the  widow’s 
parlor  had  burned  low.  Her  strange  companion 
placed  her  in  a  chair,  and  stooping  down  before  the 
half- extinguished  ashes,  raked  them  together  and 
fanned  them  with  his  hat.  From  time  to  time  he 
glanced  at  her  over  his  shoulder,  as  though  to  as¬ 
sure  himself  of  her  remaining  quiet  and  making  no 
effort  to  depart ;  and  that  done,  busied  himself  about 
the  fire  again. 

It  was  not  without  reason  that  he  took  these 
pains,  for  his  dress  was  dank  and  drenched  with 
wet,  his  jaws  rattled  with  cold,  and  he  shivered  from 
head  to  foot.  It  had  rained  hard  during  the  previ¬ 
ous  night  and  for  some  hours  in  the  morning,  but 


since  noon  it  had  been  fine.  Wheresoever  he  had 
passed  the  hours  of  darkness,  his  condition  suffi¬ 
ciently  betokened  that  many  of  them  had  been  spent 
beneath  the  opeu  sky.  Besmeared  with  mire;  his 
saturated  clothes  clinging  with  a  damp  embrace' 
about  his  limbs;  his  beard  unshaven,  his  face  un¬ 
washed,  his  meagre  cheeks  worn  into  deep  hollows 
— a  more  miserable  wretch  could  hardly  be,  than 
this  man  who  now  cowered  down  upon  the  widow’s 
hearth,  and  watched  the  struggling  flame  with  blood¬ 
shot  eyes. 

She  had  covered  her  face  with  her  hands,  fearing, 
as  it  seemed,  to  look  toward  him.  So  they  remain¬ 
ed  for  some  short  time  in  silence.  Glancing  round 
again,  he  asked  at  length  : 

“  Is  this  your  house  ?” 

“  It  is.  Why,  in  the  name  of  Heaven,  do  you 
darken  it  ?” 

“  Give  me  meat  and  drink,”  he  answered  sullenly, 
“or  I  dare  do  more  than  that.  The  very  marrow 
in  my  bones  is  cold,  with  wet  and  hunger.  I  must 
have  warmth  and  food,  and  I  will  have  them  here.” 

“  You  were  the  robber  on  the  Chigwell  Road.” 

“  I  was.” 

“And  nearly  a  murderer  then.” 

“  The  will  was  not  wanting.  There  was  one  came 
upon  me  and  raised  the  hue-and-cry,  that  it  would 
have  gone  hard  Avith,  but  for  his  nimbleness.  I 
made  a  thrust  at  him.” 

“  You  thrust  your  SAvord  at  him!”  cried  the  widoAv, 
looking  upward.  “You  hear  this  man!  you  hear 
and  saAv !” 

He  looked  at  her,  as,  with  her  head  thrown  back, 
and  her  hands  tight  clenched  together,  she  uttered 
these  Avords  in  an  agony  of  appeal.  Then,  starting 
to  his  feet  as  she  had  done,  he  advanced  toAvard  her. 

“  BeAvare !”  she  cried  in  a  suppressed  voice,  wlios6 
firmuess  stopped  him  midway.  “  Do  not  so  much 
as  touch  me  with  a  finger,  or  you  are  lost ;  body  and 
soul,  you  are  lost.” 

“Hear  me,”  he  replied,  menacing  her  with  his 
hand.  “I,  that  in  the  form  of  a  man  live  the  life 
of  a  hunted  beast !  that  in  the  body  am  a  spirit,  a 
ghost  upon  the  earth,  a  thing  from  which  all  crea¬ 
tures  shrink,  sa\re  those  cursed  beings  of  another 
world,  avIio  will  not  leave  me ;  I  am,  in  my  despera¬ 
tion  of  this  night,  past  all  fear  but  that  of  the  hell 
in  Avhich  I  exist  from  day  to  day.  Give  the  alarm, 
cry  out,  refuse  to  shelter  me.  I  will  not  hurt  you. 
But  I  will  not  be  taken  alive ;  and  so  surely  as  you 
threaten  me  aboAre  your  breath,  I  fall  a  dead  man 
on  this  floor.  The  blood  with  which  I  sprinkle  it 
be  on  you  and  yours,  in  the  name  of  the  Evil  Spirit 
that  tempts  men  to  their  ruin !” 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  a  pistol  from  his  breast,  and 
firmly  clutched  it  in  his  hand. 

“  Remove  this  man  from  me,  good  Heaven !”  cried 
the  widow.  “  In  thy  grace  and  mercy,  give  him 
one  minute’s  penitence,  and  strike  him  dead!” 

“It  has  no  such  purpose,”  he  said,  confronting 
her.  “  It  is  deaf.  GiAre  me  to  eat  and  drink,  lest  I 
do  that  it  can  not  help  my  doing,  and  will  not  do 
for  you.” 

“Will  you  leaATe  me,  if  I  do  thus  much?  Will 
you  leave  me  and  return  no  more  ?” 

“I  will  promise  nothing,”  he  rejoined,  seating 


BARN  A  BY  AND  GRIP. 


59 


himself  at  the  table,  “nothing  but  this — I  will  exe¬ 
cute  my  threat  if  you  betray  me.” 

She  rose  at  length,  and  going  to  a  closet  or  pantry 
in  the  room,  brought  out  some  fragments  of  cold 
meat  and  bread  and  put  them  on  the  table.  He 
asked  for  brandy,  and  for  water.  These  she  pro¬ 
duced  likewise ;  and  he  ate  and  drank  with  the  vo¬ 
racity  of  a  famished  hound.  All  the  time  he  was  so 
engaged  she  kept  at  the  uttermost  distance  of  the 
chamber,  and  sat  there  shuddering,  but  with  her 
face  toward  him.  She  never  turned  her  back  upon 
him  once;  and  although  when  she  passed  him  (as 
she  was  obliged  to  do  in  going  to  and  from  the  cup¬ 
board)  she  gathered  the  skirts  of  her  garment  about 
her,  as  if  even  its  touching  his  by  chance  were  hor¬ 
rible  to  think  of,  still,  in  the  midst  of  all  this  dread 
and  terror,  she  kept  her  face  toward  his  own,  and 
watched  his  every  movement. 

His  repast  ended — if  that  can  be  called  one,  which 
was  a  mere  ravenous  satisfying  of  the  calls  of  hun¬ 
ger— he  moved  his  chair  toward  the  fire  again,  and 
warming  himself  before  the  blaze  which  had  now 
sprung  brightly  up,  accosted  her  once  more. 

“  I  am  an  outcast,  to  w’hom  a  roof  above  his  head 
is  often  an  uncommon  luxury,  and  the  food  a  beg¬ 
gar  would  reject  is  delicate  fare.  You  live  here  at 
your  ease.  Do  you  live  alone  ?77 

“  I  do  not/’  she  made  answer  with  an  effort. 

“  Who  dwells  here  besides  ?77 

“One — it  is  no  matter  w7ho.  You  had  best  be¬ 
gone,  or  he  may  find  you  here.  Why  do  you  lin¬ 
ger  V’ 

“  For  warmth/7  he  replied,  spreading  out  his  hands 
before  the  fire.  “For  warmth.  You  are  rich,  per¬ 
haps  V’ 

“  Very/7  she  said,  faiptly.  “  Very  rich.  No  doubt 
I  am  very  rich.77 

“At  least  you  are  not  penniless.  You  have  somfe 
money.  You  were  making  purchases  to-night.77 

“  I  have  a  little  left.  It  is  but  a  few  shillings.77 

“Give  me  your  purse.  You  had  it  in  your  hand 
at  the  door.  Give  it  to  me.77 

She  stepped  to  the  table  and  laid  it  down.  He 
reached  across,  took  it  up,  and  told  the  contents  into 
his  hand.  As  he  w  as  countiug  them,  she  listened 
for  a  moment,  and  sprang  toward  him. 

“  Take  what  there  is,  take  all,  take  more  if  more 
were  there,  but  go  before  it  is  too  late.  I  have 
heard  a  wayward  step  without,  I  know  full  well. 
It  w  ill  return  directly.  Begone.77 

“  What  do  you  mean  ?77 

“Do  not  stop  to  ask.  I  will  not  answer.  Much 
as  I  dread  to  touch  you,  I  wrould  drag  you  to  the 
door  if  I  possessed  the  strength,  rather  than  you 
should  lose  an  instant.  Miserable  wretch !  fly  from 
this  place.77 

“  If  there  are  spies  without,  I  am  safer  here,77  re¬ 
plied  the  man,  standing  aghast.  “I  will  remain 
here,  and  will  not  fly  till  the  danger  is  past.77 

“  It  is  too  late  !77  cried  the  widow,  who  had  listen¬ 
ed  for  the  step,  and  not  to  him.  “  Hark  to  that  foot 
upon  the  ground.  Do  you  tremble  to  hear  it!  It 
is  my  son,  my  idiot  son  !77 

As  she  said  this  wildly,  there  came  a  heavy  knock¬ 
ing  at  the  door.  He  looked  at  her,  and  she  at  him. 

“  Let  him  come  in,77  said  the  man,  hoarsely.  “  I 


fear  him  less  than  the  dark,  houseless  night.  He 
knocks  again.  Let  him  come  in  !77 

“  The  dread  of  this  hour,77  returned  the  widow, 
“  has  been  upon  me  all  my  life,  and  I  will  not.  Evil 
will  fall  upon  him,  if  you  stand  eye  to  eye.  My 
blighted  boy !  Oh  !  all  good  angels  who  know  the 
truth — hear  a  poor  mother’s  prayer,  and  spare  my 
boy  from  knowledge  of  this  man  !77 

“He  rattles  at  the  shutters  !77  cried  the  man.  “  He 
calls  you.  That  voice  and  cry !  It  was  he  who 
grappled  with  me  in  the  road.  Was  it  he  ?’• 7 

She  had  sunk  upon  her  knees,  and  so  knelt  down, 
moving  her  lips,  but  uttering  no  sound.  As  he  gazed 
upon  her,  uncertain  w  hat  to  do  or  where  to  turn,  the 
shutters  flew  open.  He  had  barely  time  to  catch  a 
knife  from  the  table,  sheathe  it  in  the  loose  sleeve 
of  his  coat,  hide  in  the  closet,  and  do  all  with  the 
lightning’s  speed,  when  Barnaby  tapped  at  the  bare 
glass,  and  raised  the  sash  exultingly. 

“Why,  who  can  keep  out  Grip  and  me  !77  he  cried, 
thrusting  in  his  head,  and  staring  round  the  room. 
“Are  you  there,  mother?  How  long  you  keep  us 
from  the  fire  and  light.77 

She  stammered  some  ex'cuse,  and  tendered  him  her 
hand.  But  Barnaby  sprang  lightly  in  without  as¬ 
sistance,  and  putting  his  arms  about  her  neck,  kissed 
her  a  hundred  times. 

“We  have  been  afield,  mother  —  leaping  ditch¬ 
es,  scrambling  through  hedges,  running  down  steep 
banks,  up  and  away,  and  hurrying  on.  The  wind 
has  been  blowing,  and  the  rushes  and  young  plants 
bowing  and  bending  to  it,  lest  it  should  do  them 
harm,  the  cowards — and  Grip — ha,  ha,  ha  ! — brave 
Grip,  who  cares  for  nothing,  and  when  the  wind 
rolls  him  over  in  the  dust,  turns  manfully  to  bite  it 
— Grip,  bold  Grip,  has  quarreled  with  every  little 
bowing  twig— thinking,  he  told  me,  that  it  mocked 
him — and  has  worried  it  like  a  bull-dog.  Ha,  ha, 
ha!77 

The  raven,  in  his  little  basket  at  his  master’s  back, 
hearing  this  frequent  mention  of  his  name  in  a  tone 
of  exultation,  expressed  his  sympathy  by  crowing 
like  a  cock,  and  afterward  running  over  his  vari¬ 
ous  phrases  of  speech  with  such  rapidity,  and  in  so 
many  varieties  of  hoarseness,  that  they  sounded  like 
the  murmurs  of  a  crowd  of  people. 

“  He  takes  such  care  of  me  besides  !77  said  Barna¬ 
by.  “Such  care, mother!  He  watches  all  the  time 
I  sleep,  and  when  I  shut  my  eyes  and  make-believe 
to  slumber,  he  practices  new  learning  softly ;  but  he 
keeps  his  eye  on  me  the  while,  and  if  he  sees  me 
laugh,  though  never  so  little,  stops  directly.  He 
won’t  surprise  me  till  he’s  perfect.77 

The  raven  crowed  again  in  a  rapturous  manner, 
which  plainly  said,  “  Those  are  certainly  some  of 
my  characteristics,  and  I  glory  in  them.77  In  the. 
mean  time,  Barnaby  closed  the  wrindowr  and  secured 
it,  and  coming  to  the  fire-place,  prepared  to  sit  down 
with  his  face  to  the  closet.  But  his  mother  prevent¬ 
ed  this,  by  hastily  taking  that  side  herself,  and  mo¬ 
tioning  him  toward  the  other. 

“How  pale  you  are  to-night!77  said  Barnaby, lean¬ 
ing  on  his  stick.  “We  have  been  cruel,  Grip,  aud 
made  her  anxious  !77 

Anxious  in  good  truth,  and  sick  at  heart!  The 
listener  held  the  door  of  his  hiding-place  open  with 


CO 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


his  hand,  and  closely  watched  her  son.  Grip — alive 
to  every  thing  his  master  was  unconscious  of — had 
his  head  out  of  the  basket,  and  in  return  was  watch¬ 
ing  him  intently  with  his  glistening  eye. 

“  He  flaps  his  wings,”  said  Barnaby,  turning  al¬ 
most  quickly  enough  to  catch  the  retreating  form 
and  closing  door,  “  as  if  there  were  strangers  here, 
but  Grip  is  wiser  than  to  fancy  that.  Jump  then  !” 

Accepting  this  invitation  with  a  dignity  peculiar 
to  himself,  the  bird  hopped  up  on  his  master’s  shoul¬ 
der,  from  that  to  his  extended  hand,  and  so  to  the 
ground.  Barnaby  unstrapping  the  basket  and  put¬ 
ting  it  down  in  a  corner  with  the  lid  open,  Grip’s 
first  care  was  to  shut  it  down  with  all  possible  dis¬ 
patch,  and  then  to  stand  upon  it.  Believing,  no 
doubt,  that  he  had  now  rendered  it  utterly  impossi¬ 
ble,  and  beyond  the  power  of  mortal  man,  to  shut 
him  up  in  it  any  more,  he  drew  a  great  many  corks 
in  triumph,  and  uttered  a  corresponding  number  of 
hurras. 

“ Mother!”  said  Barnaby, laying  aside  his  hat  and 
stick,  and  returning  to  the  chair  from  which  he  had 
risen,  “  I’ll  tell  you  where  we  have  been  to-day,  and 
what  we  have  been  doing— shall  I  ?” 

She  took  his  hand  in  hers,  and  holding  it,  nodded 
the  word  she  could  not  speak. 

“  You  mustn’t  tell,”  said  Barnaby,  holding  up  his 
finger,  “  for  it’s  a  secret,  mind,  and  only  known  to 
me,  and  Grip,  and  Hugh.  We  had  the  clog  with  us, 
but  he’s  not  like  Grip,  clever  as  he  is,  and  doesn’t 
guess  it  yet,  I’ll  wager. — Why  do  you  look  behind 
me  so  ?” 

“Did  I?”  she  answered,  faintly.  “I  didn’t  know 
I  did.  Come  nearer  me.” 

“You  are  frightened!”  said  Barnaby,  changing 
color.  “  Mother — you  don’t  see — ” 

“  See  what !” 

“  There’s — there’s  none  of  this  about,  is  there  ?” 
he  answered  in  a  whisper,  drawing  closer  to  her  and 
clasping  the  mark  upon  his  wrist.  “I  am  afraid 
there  is,  somewhere.  You  make  my  hair  stand  on 
end,  and  my  flesh  creep.  Why  do  you  look  like 
that  ?  Is  it  in  the  room  as  I  have  seen  it  in  my 
dreams,  clashing  the  ceiling  and  the  walls  with  red? 
Tell  me.  Is  it  ?” 

He  fell  into  a  shivering  fit  as  he  put  the  question, 
and  shutting  out  the  light  with  his  hands,  sat  shak¬ 
ing  in  every  limb  until  it  had  passed  away.  After 
a  time,  he  raised  his  head  and  looked  about  him. 

“  Is  it  gone  ?” 

“There  has  been  nothing  here!”  rejoined  his 
mother,  soothing  him.  “  Nothing  indeed,  dear  Bar¬ 
naby.  Look !  You  see  there  are  but  you  and  me.” 

He  gazed  at  her  vacantly,  and,  becoming  re-as¬ 
sured  by  degrees,  burst  into  a  wild  laugh. 

“But  let  us  see,”  he  said,  thoughtfully.  “We 
were  talking  ?  Was  it  you  and  me  ?  Where  have 
we  been  ?” 

“  Nowhere  but  here.” 

“Ay,  but  Hugh  and  I,”  said  Barnaby  —  “that’s 
it.  Maypole  Hugh,  and  I,  you  know,  and  Grip — we 
have  been  lying  in  the  forest,  and  among  the  trees 
by  the  road -side,  with  a  dark  lantern  after  night 
came  on,  and  the  dog  in  a  noose  ready  to  slip  him 
when  the  man  came  by.” 

“  What  man  ?” 


“  The  robber ;  him  that  the  stars  winked  at.  We 
have  waited  for  him  after  dark  these  many  nights, 
and  we  shall  have  him.  I’d  know  him  in  a  thou¬ 
sand.  Mother,  see  here !  This  is  the  man.  Look  !” 

He  twisted  his  handkerchief  round  his  head,  pull¬ 
ed  his  hat  upon  his  brow,  wrapped  his  coat  about 
him,  and  stood  up  before  her:  so  like  the  original 
he  counterfeited,  that  the  dark  figure  peering  out 
behind  him  might  have  passed  for  his  own  shadow. 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!  We  shall  have  him,”  he  cried,  rid¬ 
ding  himself  of  the  semblance  as  hastily  as  he  had 
assumed  it.  “You  shall  see  him,  mother,  bound 
baud  and  foot,  and  brought  to  London  at  a  sadclle- 
girth  ;  and  you  shall  hear  of  him  at  Tyburn  Tree  if 
we  have  luck.  So  Hugh  says.  You’re  pale  again, 
and  trembling.  And  why  do  you  look  behind  me 
so  ?” 

“It  is  nothing,”  she  answered.  “I  am  not  quite 
well.  Go  you  to  bed,  dear,  and  leave  me  here.” 

“  To  bed  !”  he  answered.  “  I  don’t  like  bed.  I 
like  to  lie  before  the  fire,  watching  the  prospects  in 
the  burning  coals — the  rivers,  hills,  and  dells,  in  the 
deep,  red  sunset,  and  the  wild  faces.  I  am  hungry 
too,  and  Grip  has  eaten  nothing  since  broad  noon. 
Let  us  to  supper.  Grip !  To  supper,  lacl!” 

The  raven  flapped  his  wings,  and,  croaking  his 
satisfaction,  hopped  to  the  feet  of  his  master,  and 
there  held  his  bill  open,  ready  for  snapping  up  such 
lumps  of  meat  as  he  should  throw  him.  Of  these  he 
received  about  a  score  in  rapid  succession,  without 
the  smallest  discomposure. 

“That’s  all,”  said  Barnaby. 

“  More !”  cried  Grip.  “  More !” 

But  it  appearing  for  a  certainty  that  no  more  was 
to  be  had,  he  retreated  with  his  store ;  and  disgorg¬ 
ing  the  morsels  one  by  one  from  his  pouch,  hid  them 
iu  various  corners — taking  particular  care,  however, 
tb  avoid  the  closet,  as  being  doubtful  of  the  hidden 
mau’s  propensities  and  jiower  of  resisting  tempta¬ 
tion.  When  he  had  concluded  these  arrangements, 
he  took  a  turn  or  two  across  the  room  with  au  elab¬ 
orate  assumption  of  having  nothing  on  his  mind 
(but  with  one  eye  hard  upon  his  treasure  all  the 
timd),  and  then,  and  not  till  then,  began  to  drag  it 
out,  piece  by  piece,  and  eat  it  with  the  utmost  relish. 

Barnaby,  for  his  part,  having  pressed  his  mother 
to  eat,  in  vain,  made  a  hearty  supper  too.  Once 
during  the  progress  of  his  meal,  he  wanted  more 
bread  from  the  closet,  and  rose  to  get  it.  She  hur¬ 
riedly  interposed  to  prevent  him,  and  summoning 
her  utmost  fortitude,  passed  into  the  recess,  and 
brought  it  out  herself. 

“Mother,”  said  Barnaby,  looking  at  her  steadfast¬ 
ly  as  she  sat  down  beside  him  after  doing  so ;  “  is 
to-day  my  birthday  ?” 

“  To-day !”  she  answered.  “  Don’t  you  recollect 
it  was  but  a  week  or  so  ago,  and  that  summer,  au¬ 
tumn,  and  winter  has  to  pass  before  it  comes  again  ?” 

“  I  remember  that  it  has  beeu  so  till  now,”  said 
Barnaby.  “  But  I  think  to-day  must  be  my  birth¬ 
day  too,  for  all  that.” 

She  asked  him  why  ?  “  I’ll  tell  you  why,”  he 

said.  “I  have  always  seen  you  —  I  didn’t  let  you 
know  it,  but  I  have  —  ou  the  evening  of  that  day 
grow  very  sad.  I  have  seen  you  cry  when  Grip  and 
I  were  most  glad ;  and  look  frightened  with  no  rea- 


“POLLY  PUT  THE  KET— ” 


61 


do  now.  I  have  found  that  out,  you  see,  though  I 
am  silly.  So  I  say  you’re  wrong ;  and  this  must  he 
my  birthday — my  birthday,  Grip  !” 

The  bird  received  this  information  with  a  crow 
of  such  duration  as  a  cock,  gifted  with  intelligence 
beyond  all  others  of  his  kind,  might  usher  in  the 
longest  day  with.  Then,  as  if  he  had  well  consid¬ 
ered  the  sentiment,  and  regarded  it  as  apposite  to 
birthdays,  he  cried,  “  Never  say  die !”  a  great  many 
times,  and  flapped  his  wings  for  emphasis. 

The  widow  tried  to  make  light  of  Barnaby’s  re¬ 
mark,  and  endeavored  to  divert  his  attention  to 
some  new  subject;  too  easy  a  task  at  all  times,  as 
she  knew.  His  supper  done,  Barnaby,  regardless  of 


After  a  long  interval,  Barnaby’s  breathing  grew 
more  deep  and  regular,  and  his  eyes  were  closed. 
But  even  then  the  unquiet  spirit  of  the  raven  inter¬ 
posed,  “  Polly  put  the  ket — ”  cried  Grip,  and  his 
master  was  broad  awake  again. 

At  length  Barnaby  slept  soundly,  and  the  bird 
with  his  bill  s'unk  upon  his  breast,  his  breast  itself 
puffed  out  into  a  comfortable  alderman-like  form, 
and  his  bright  eye  growing  smaller  and  smaller, 
really  seemed  to  be  subsiding  into  a  state  of  repose. 
Now  and  then  he  muttered  in  a  sepulchral  voice, 
“  Polly  put  the  ket — ”  but  very  drowsily,  and  more 
like  a  drunken  man  than  a  reflecting  raven. 

The  widow,  scarcely  venturing  to  breathe,  rose 


WITH  THAT  HE  ADVANCED,  AND  RENDING  DOWN  OVER  THE  PROSTRATE  POEM,  SOFTLY  TURNED  HACK  THE  HEAD  AND  LOOKED  INTO  THE  FACE. 


her  entreaties,  stretched  himself  on  the  mat  before 
the  fire ;  Grip  perched  upon  his  leg,  and  divided  his 
time  between  doziug  in  the  grateful  warmth,  and 
endeavoring  (as  it  presently  appeared)  to  recall  a 
new  accomplishment  he  had  been  studying  all  day. 

A  long  and  profound  silence  ensued,  broken  only 
by  some  change  of  position  on  the  part  of  Barnaby, 
whose  eyes  were  still  wide  open  and  intently  fixed 
upon  the  fire ;  or  by  an  effort  of  recollection  on  the 
part  of  Grip,  who  would  cry  in  a  low  voice  from 
time  to  time,  “  Polly  put  the  ket — ”  and  there  stop 
short,  forgetting  the  remainder,  and  go  off  in  a  doze 
again. 


son  ;  and  I  have  touched  your  hand,  and  felt  that  it 
was  cold — as  it  is  now.  Once,  mother  (on  a  birth¬ 
day  that  was,  also),  Grip  and  I  thought  of  this  after 
we  went  up  stairs  to  bed,  and  wheu  it  was  midnight, 
striking  one  o’clock,  we  came  down  to  your  door  to 
see  if  you  were  well.  You  were  on  your  knees.  I 
forget  what  it  was  you  said.  Grip,  what  was  it  we 
heard  her  say  that  night  ?” 

“  Pm  a  devil !”  rejoined  the  raven,  promptly. 

“No,  no,”  said  Barnaby.  “But  you  said  some¬ 
thing  in  a  prayer;  and  when  you  rose  and  walked 
about,  you  looked  (as  you  have  done  ever  since, 
mother,  toward  night  on  my  birthday)  just  as  you 


62 


BABXABY  BUDGE. 


from  lier  seat.  The  man  glided  from  the  closet,  and 
extinguished  the  caudle. 

“ — tie  on,”  cried  Grip,  suddenly  struck  with  an 
idea,  and  very  much  excited.  “  — tie  on.  Hurra  ! 
Polly  put  the  ket-tle  on,  we’ll  all  have  tea;  Polly 
put  the  ket-tle  on,  we’ll  all  have  tea.  Hurra,  hur¬ 
ra,  hurra!  Pm  a  devil,  Pm  a  devil,  I’m  a  ket-tle 
on,  Keep  up  your  spirits,  Never  say  die,  Bow  wow 
wow,  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  ket-tle,  I’m  a — Polly  put  the 
ket-tle  on,  we’ll  all  have  tea.” 

They  stood  rooted  to  the  ground,  as  though  it  had 
been  a  voice  from  the  grave. 

But  even  this  failed  to  awaken  the  sleeper.  He 
turned  over  toward  the  fire,  his  arm  fell  to  the 
ground,  and  his  head  drooped  heavily  upon  it.  The 
widow  and  her  umvelcome  visitor  gazed  at  hipi  and 
at  each  other  for  a  moment,  and  then  she  motioned 
him  toward  the  door. 

“  Stay,”  he  whispered.  “  You  teach  your  son 
well.” 

“  I  have  taught  him  nothing  that  you  heard  to¬ 
night.  Depart  instantly,  or  I  will  rouse  him.” 

“  You  are  free  to  do  so.  Shall  I  rouse  him  ?” 

“  You  dare  not  do  that.” 

“  I  dare  do  any  thing,  I  have  told  you.  He  knows 
me  well,  it  seems.  At  least  I  will  know  him.” 

“  Would  you  kill  him  in  his  sleep  ?”  cried  the  wid¬ 
ow,  throwing  herself  between  them. 

“Woman,”  he  returned  between  his  teeth,  as  he 
motioned  her  aside,  “  I  would  see  him  nearer,  and  I 
will.  If  you  want  one  of  us  to  kill  the  other,  wake 
him.” 

With  that  he  advanced,  and  bending  down  over 
the  prostrate  form,  softly  turned  back  the  head  and 
looked  into  the  face.  The  light  of  the  fire  was  upon 
it,  and  its  every  lineament  was  revealed  distinctly. 
He  contemplated  it  for  a  brief  space,  and  hastily  up¬ 
rose. 

“  Observe,”  he  whispered  in  the  widow’s  ear :  “  In 
him,  of  whose  existence  I  was  ignorant  until  to¬ 
night,  I  have  you  in  my  power.  Be  careful  how  you 
use  me.  Be  careful  how  you  use  me.  I  am  desti¬ 
tute  and  starving,  and  a  wanderer  upon  the  earth. 
I  may  take  a  snre  and  slow  revenge.” 

“  There  is  some  dreadful  meaning  in  your  words. 
I  do  not  fathom  it.” 

“  There  is  a  meaning  in  them,  and  I  see  you  fath¬ 
om  it  to  its  very  depth.  You  have  anticipated  it 
for  years ;  you  have  told  me  as  much.  I  leave  you 
to  digest  it.  Do  not  forget  my  warning.” 

He  pointed,  as  he  left  her,  to  the  slumbering  form, 
and  stealthily  withdrawing,  made  his  way  into  the 
street.  She  fell  on  her  knees  beside  the  sleeper,  and 
remained  like  one  stricken  into  stone,  until  the  tears 
which  fear  had  frozen  so  long,  came  tenderly  to  her 
relief. 

“  Oh  Thou,”  she  cried,  “  who  hast  taught  me  such 
deep  love  for  this  one  remnant  of  the  promise  of  a 
happy  life,  out  of  whose  affliction,  even  perhaps  the 
comfort  springs  that  he  is  ever  a  relying,  loving 
child  to  me — never  growing  old  or  cold  at  heart, 
but  needing  my  care  and  duty  in  his  manly  strength 
as  in  his  cradle-time — help  him,  in  his  darkened 
walk  through  this  sad  world,  or  he  is  doomed,  and 
my  poor  heart  is  broken  !” 

- ♦ - ' 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

('A  LIDING  along  the  silent  streets,  and  holding 
JT  his  course  where  they  were  darkest  and  most 
gloomy,  the  man  who  had  left  the  widow’s  house 
crossed  London  Bridge,  and  arriving  in  the  City, 
plunged  into  the  back-ways,  lanes,  and  conrts  be¬ 
tween  Cornhill  and  Smithfield ;  with  no  more  fixed¬ 
ness  of  purpose  than  to  lose  himself  among  their 
windings,  and  baffle  pursuit,  if  any  one  were  dog¬ 
ging  his  steps. 

It  was  the  dead  time  of  the  night,  and  all  was 
quiet.  Now  and  then  a  drowsy  watchman’s  foot¬ 
steps  sounded  on  the ’pavement,  or  the  lamp-lighter 
on  his  rounds  went  flashing  past,  leaving  behind  a 
little  track  of  smoke  mingled  with  glowing  morsels 
of  his  hot  red  link.  He  hid  himself  even  from  these 
partakers  of  his  lonely  walk,  and,  shrinking  in  some 
arch  or  door -way  while  they  passed,  issued  forth 
again  when  they  were  gone  and  so  pursued  his  soli¬ 
tary  way. 

To  be  shelterless  and  alone  in  the  open  country, 
hearing  the  wind  moan  and  watching  for  day 
through  the  whole  long  weary  night;  to  listen  to 
the  falling  rain,  and  crouch  for  warmth  beneath  the 
lee  of  some  old  barn  or  rick,  or  in  the  hollow  of  a 
tree;  are  dismal  things — but  not  so  dismal  as  the 
wandering  up  and  down  where  shelter  is,  and  beds 
and  sleepers  are  by  thousands ;  a  houseless  rejected 
creature.  To  pace  the  echoing  stones  from  hour  to 
hour,  counting  the  dull  chimes  of  the  clocks;  to 
watch  the  lights  twinkling  in  chamber  windows,  to 
think  what  happy  forgetfulness  each  house  shuts  in  ; 
that  here  are  children  coiled  together  in  their  beds, 
here  youth,  here  age,  here  poverty,  here  wealth,  all 
equal  in  their  sleep,  and  all  at  rest ;  to  have  nothing 
in  common  with  the  slumbering  world  around,  not 
even  sleep,  Heaven’s  gift  to  all  its  creatures,  and  be 
akin  to  nothing  but  despair;  to  feel,  by  the  wretch¬ 
ed  contrast  with  every  thing  on  every  hand,  more 
utterly  alone  and  cast  away  than  in  a  trackless  des¬ 
ert  ;  this  is  a  kind  of  suffering,  on  which  the  rivers 
of  great  cities  close  full  many  a  time,  and  w  hich  the 
solitude  in  crowds  alone  awakens. 

The  miserable  man  paced  up  and  down  the  streets 
— so  long,  so  wearisome,  so  like  each  other — and  oft¬ 
en  cast  a  wistful  look  toward  the  east,  hoping  to  see 
the  first  faint  streaks  of  day.  But  obdurate  night 
had  yet  possession  of  the  sky,  and  his  disturbed  and 
restless  walk  found  no  relief. 

One  house  in  a  back  street  was  bright  with  the 
cheerful  glare  of  lights ;  there  was  the  sound  of  mu¬ 
sic  in  it  too,  and  the  tread  of  dancers,  and  there  were 
cheerful  voices,  and  many  a  burst  of  laughter.  To 
this  place — to  be  near  something  that  was  awake 
and  glad — he  returned  again  and  again;  and  more 
than  one  of  those  who  left  it  when  the  merriment 
was  at  its  height,  felt  it  a  check  upon  their  mirthful 
mood  to  see  him  flitting  to  and  fro  like  an  uneasy 
ghost.  At  last  the  guests  departed,  one  and  all ; 
and  then  the  house  was  close  shut  up,  and  became 
I  as  dull  and  silent  as  the  rest. 

His  wanderings  brought  him  at  one  time  to  the 
city  jail.  Instead  of  hastening  from  it  as  a  place  of 
ill  omen,  and  one  he  had  cause  to  shun,  he  sat  down 
on  some  steps  hard  by,  and  resting  his  chin  upon  his 


A  LATE  LODGER . 


63 


hand,  gazed  upon  its  rough  and  frowning  walls  as 
though  eveu  they  became  a  refuge  in  his  jaded  eyes. 
He  paced  it  round  and  round,  came  back  to  the  same 
spot,  and  sat  down  again.  He  did  this  often,  and 
once,  with  a  hasty  movement,  crossed  to  where  some 
men  were  watching  in  the  prison  lodge,  and  had  his 
foot  upon  the  steps  as  though  determined  to  accost 
them.  But  looking  round,  he  saw  that  the  day  be- 
began  to  break,  and  failing  in  his  purpose,  turned 
and  fled. 

He  was  soon  in  the  quarter  he  had  lately  trav¬ 
ersed,  and  pacing  to  and  fro  again  as  he  had  done 
before.  He  was  passing  down  a  mean  street,  when 
from  an  alley  close  at  hand  some  shouts  of  revelry 
arose,  and  there  came  straggling  forth  a  dozen  mad¬ 
caps,  whooping  and  calling  to  each  other,  who,  part¬ 
ing  noisily,  took  different  ways  and  dispersed  in 
smaller  groups. 

Hoping  that  some  low  place  of  entertainment 
which  would  afford  him  a  safe  refuge  might  be  near 
at  hand,  he  turned  into  this  court  when  they  were 
all  gone,  and  looked  about  for  a  half- opened  door, 
or  lighted  window,  or  other  indication  of  the  place 
whence  they  had  come.  It  was  so  profoundly  dark, 
however,  and  so  ill-favored,  that  he  concluded  they 
had  but  turned  up  there,  missing  their  way,  and  were 
pouring  out  again  when  he  observed  them.  With 
this  impression,  and  finding  there  was  no  outlet  but 
that  by  which  he  had  entered,  he  was  about  to  turn, 
when  from  a  grating  near  his  feet  a  sudden  stream 
of  light  appeared,  and  the  sound  of  talking  came. 
He  retreated  into  a  door-way  to  see  who  these  talk¬ 
ers  were,  and  to  listen  to  them. 

The  light  came  to  the  level  of  the  pavement  as  he 
did  this,  and  a  man  ascended,  bearing  in  his  hand  a 
torch.  This  figure  unlocked  and  held  open  the  grat¬ 
ing  as  for  the  passage  of  another,  who  presently  ap¬ 
peared,  in  the  form  of  a  young  man  of  small  stature 
and  uncommon  self-importance,  dressed  in  an  obso¬ 
lete  and  very  gaudy  fashion. 

“  Good  -night,  noble  captain,”  said  he  with  the 
torch.  “Farewell,  commander.  Good  luck,  illus¬ 
trious  general !” 

In  return  to  these  'compliments  the  other  bade 
him  hold  his  tongue,  and  keep  his  noise  to  himself ; 
and  laid  upon  him  many  similar  injunctions,  with 
great  fluency  of  speech  and  sternness  of  manner. 

“  Commend  me,  captain,  to  the  stricken  Miggs,” 
returned  the  torch -bearer  in  a  lower  voice.  “My 
captain  flies  at  higher  game  than  Miggses.  Ha,  ha, 
ba !  My  captain  is  an  eagle,  both  as  respects  his  eye 
and  soaring  wings.  My  captain  breaketh  hearts  as 
other  bachelors  break  eggs  at  breakfast.” 

“  What  a  fool  you  are,  Stagg !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit, 
stepping  on  the  pavement  of  the  court,  and  brushing 
from  his  legs  the  dust  he  had  contracted  in  his  pas¬ 
sage  upward. 

“  His  precious  limbs !”  cried  Stagg,  clasping  one 
of  his  ankles.  “  Shall  a  Miggs  aspire  to  these  pro¬ 
portions!  No,  no,  my  captain.  We  will  inveigle 
ladies  fair,  and  wed  them  in  our  secret  cavern.  We 
will  unite  ourselves  with  blooming  beauties,  cap¬ 
tain.” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  what,  my  buck,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit, 
releasing  his  leg;  “I’ll  trouble  you  not  to  take  lib¬ 
erties,  and  not  to  broach  certain  questions  unless 


certain  questions  are  broached  to  you.  Speak  when 
you’re  spoke  to  on  particular  subjects,  and  not  oth- 
erways.  Hold  the  torcli  up  till  I’ve  got  to  the  end 
of  the  court,  and  then  kennel  yourself,  do  you  hear?” 

“I  hear  you,  noble  captain.” 

“  Obey  then,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  haughtily.  “  Gen¬ 
tlemen,  lead  on!”  With  which  word  of  command 
(addressed  to  au  imaginary  staff  or  retinue)  he  fold¬ 
ed  his  arms,  and  walked  with  surpassing  dignity 
down  the  court. 

His  obsequious  follower  stood  holding  the  torch 
above  his  head,  and  then  the  observer  saw  for  the 
first  time,  from  his  place  of  concealment,  that  he 
was  blind.  Some  involuntary  motion  on  his  part 
caught  the  quick  ear  of  the  blind  man,  before  he 
was  conscious  of  having  moved  an  inch  toward  him, 
for  he  turned  suddenly  and  cried,  “  Who’s  there  ?” 

“A  man,”  said  the  other,  advancing.  “A  friend.” 

“A  stranger!”  rejoined  the  blind  man.  “Stran¬ 
gers  are  not  my  friends.  What  do  you  do  there  ?” 

“  I  saw  your  company  come  out,  and  waited  here 
till  they  were  gone.  I  want  a  lodging.” 

“A  lodging  at  this  time!”  returned  Stagg,  point¬ 
ing  toward  the  dawn  as  though  he  saw  it.  “Do 
you  know  the  day  is  breaking  ?” 

“I  know  it,”  rejoined  the  other,  “to  my  cost.  I 
have  been  traversing  this  iron -hearted  town  all 
night.” 

“You  had  better  traverse  it  again,”  said  the  blind 
man,  preparing  to  descend,  “till  you  find  some  lodg¬ 
ings  suitable  to  your  taste.  I  don’t  let  any.” 

“  Stay!”  cried  the  other,  holding  him  by  the  arm. 

“I’ll  beat  this  light  about  that  hangdog  face  of 
yours  (for  hangdog  it  is,  if  it  answers  to  your  voice), 
and  rouse  the  neighborhood  besides,  if  you  detain 
me,”  said  the  blind  man.  “Let  me  go.  Do  you 
hear  ?” 

“Do  you  hear!”  returned  the  other,  chinking  a 
few  shillings  together,  and  hurriedly  pressing  them 
into  his  hand.  “I  beg  nothiug  of  you.  I  will  pay 
for  the  shelter  you  give  me.  Death !  Is  it  much 
to  ask  of  such  as  you  !  I  have  come  from  the  coun¬ 
try,  and  desire  to  rest  where  there  are  none  to  ques¬ 
tion  me.  I  am  faint,  exhausted,  worn  out,  almost 
dead.  Let  me  lie  down,  like  a  dog,  before  your  fire. 
I  ask  no  more  than  that.  If  you  would  be  rid  of 
me,  I  will  depart  to-morrow.” 

“If  a  gentleman  has  been  unfortunate  on  the 
road,”  muttered  Stagg,  yielding  to  the  other,  who, 
pressing  on  him,  had  already  gained  a  footing  on  the 
steps — “and  can  pay  for  his  accommodation — ” 

“  I  will  pay  you  with  all  I  have.  I  am  just  now 
past  the  want  of  food,  God  knows,  and  wish  but  to 
purchase  shelter.  What  companion  have  you  be¬ 
low  ?” 

“None.” 

“Then  fasten  your  grate  there,  and  show  me  the 
way.  Quick.” 

The  blind  man  complied  after  a  moment’s  hesita¬ 
tion,  and  they  descended  together.  The  dialogue 
had  passed  as  hurriedly  as  the  words  could  be  spoken, 
and  they  stood  in  his  wretched  room  before  he  had 
had  time  to  recover  from  his  first  surprise. 

“  May  I  see  where  that  door  leads  to,  and  what 
is  beyond?”  said  the  man,  glancing  keenly  round. 
“  You  will  not  mind  that  ?” 


G4 


BARXABY  BUDGE. 


“ 1  will  show  you  myself.  Follow  me,  or  go  be¬ 
fore.  Take  your  choice.” 

He  hade  him  lead  the  way,  and,  by  the  light  of 
the  torch  which  his  conductor  held  up  for  the  pur¬ 
pose,  inspected  all  three  cellars  narrowly.  Assured 
that  the  blind  man  had  spoken  truth,  and  that  he 
lived  there  alone,  the  visitor  returned  with  him  to 
the  first,  iu  which  a  fire  was  burning,  and  flung  him¬ 
self  with  a  deep  groan  upon  the  ground  before  it. 

His  host  pursued  his  usual  occupation  without 
seeming  to  heed  him  any  further.  But  directly  he 
fell  asleep — and  he  noted  his  falling  into  a  slumber, 
as  readily  as  the  keenest-sighted  man  could  have 
done — he  knelt  down  beside  him,  and  passed  his 
hand  lightly  but  carefully  over  his  face  and  person. 

His  sleep  was  checkered  with  starts  and  moans, 
and  sometimes  with  a  muttered  word  or  two.  His 
hands  were  clenched,  his  brow  bent,  and  his  mouth 
firmly  set.  All  this,  the  bliud  man  accurately  mark¬ 
ed  ;  and  as  if  his  curiosity  were  strongly  awakened, 
and  he  had  already  some  inkling  of  his  mystery,  he 
sat  watching  him,  if  the  expression  may  be  used, 
and  listening,  until  it  was  broad  day. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

OLLY  VARDEN’S  pretty  little  head  was  yet 
bewildered  by  various  recollections  of  the  par¬ 
ty,  and  her  bright  eyes  were  yet  dazzled  by  a  crowd 
of  images,  dancing  before  them  like  motes  in  the 
sunbeams,  among  which  the  effigy  of  one  partner  in 
particular  did  especially  figure,  the  same  being  a 
young  coach-maker  (a  master  in  his  own  right)  who 
had  given  her  to  understand,  when  he  handed  her 
into  the  chair  at  parting,  that  it  was  his  fixed  re¬ 
solve  to  neglect  his  business  from  that  time,  and  die 
slowly  for  the  love  of  her — Dolly’s  head,  and  eyes, 
and  thoughts,  and  seven  senses,  were  all  in  a  state 
of  flutter  and  confusion  for  which  the  party  was 
accountable,  although  it  was  now  three  days  old, 
when,  as  she  was  sitting  listlessly  at  breakfast,  read¬ 
ing  all  manner  of  fortunes  (that  is  to  say,  of  married 
and  flourishing  fortunes)  in  the  grounds  of  her  tea¬ 
cup,  a  step  was  heard  in  the  workshop,  and  Mr.  Ed¬ 
ward  Chester  was  descried  through  the  glass  door, 
standing  among  the  rusty  locks  and  keys,  like  love 
among  the  roses — for  which  apt  comparison  the  his¬ 
torian  may  by  no  means  take  any  credit  to  himself, 
the  same  being  the  invention,  in  a  sentimental  mood, 
of  the  chaste  and  modest  Miggs,  who,  beholding  him 
from  the  door-steps  she  was  then  cleaning,  did,  in 
her  maiden  meditation,  give  utterance  to  the  simile. 

The  lock-smith,  who  happened  at  the  moment  to 
have  his  eyes  thrown  upward  and  his  head  back¬ 
ward,  in  an  intense  communing  with  Toby,  did  not 
see  his  visitor,  until  Mrs.  Varden,  more  watchful 
than  the  rest,  had  desired  Sim  Tappertit  to  open  the 
glass  door  and  give  him  admission — from  which  un¬ 
toward  circumstance  the  good  lady  argued  (for  she 
could  deduce  a  precious  moral  from  the  most  trifling 
event)  that  to  take  a  draught  of  small  ale  in  the 
morning  was  to  observe  a  pernicious,  irreligious,  and 
Pagan  custom,  the  relish  whereof  should  be  left  to 
swine,  and  Satan,  or  at  least  to  Popish  persons,  and 


should  be  shunned  by  the  righteous  as  a  work  of  sin 
and  evil.  She  would  no  doubt  have  pursued  her 
admonition  much  further,  and  would  have  founded 
on  it  a  long  list  of  precious  precepts  of  inestimable 
value,  but  that  the  young  gentleman  standing  by  in 
a  somewhat  uncomfortable  and  discomfited  manner 
while  she  read  her  spouse  this  lecture,  occasioned 
her  to  bring  it  to  a  premature  conclusion. 

“  I’m  sure  you’ll  excuse  me,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den,  rising  and  courtesying.  “Varden  is  so  very 
thoughtless,  and  needs  so  much  reminding  —  Sim, 
bring  a  chair  here.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  obeyed,  with  a  flourish  implying 
that  he  did  so,  under  protest. 

“And  you  can  go,  Sim,”  said  the  lock-smith. 

Mr.  Tappertit  obeyed  again,  still  under  protest ; 
and  betaking  himself  to  the  workshop,  began  seri¬ 
ously  to  fear  that  he  might  find  it  necessary  to  poi¬ 
son  his  master,  before  his  time  was  out. 

In  the  mean  time,  Edward  returned  suitable  re¬ 
plies  to  Mrs.  Varden’s  courtesies,  and  that  lady 
brightened  up  very  much;  so  that  when  he  accept¬ 
ed  a  dish  of  tea  from  the  fair  hands  of  Dolly,  she 
was  perfectly  agreeable. 

“I  am  sure  if  there’s  any  thing  we  can  do — Var¬ 
den,  or  I,  or  Dolly  either — to  serve  yon,  sir,  at  any 
time,  you  have  only  to  say  it,  and  it  shall  be  done,” 
said  Mrs.  V. 

“  I  am  much  obliged  to  yon,  I  am  sure,”  returned 
Edward.  “You  encourage  me  to  say  that  I  have 
come  here  now,  to  beg  your  good  offices.” 

Mrs.  Varden  was  delighted  beyond  measure. 

“  It  occurred  to  me  that  probably  your  fair  daugh¬ 
ter  might  be  going  to  the  Warren,  either  to-day  or 
to-morrow,”  said  Edward,  glancing  at  Dolly;  “and 
if  so,  and  you  will  allow  her  to  take  charge  of  this 
letter,  ma’am,  you  will  oblige  me  more  than  I  can 
tell  you.  The  truth  is,  that  while  I  am  very  anx¬ 
ious  it  should  reach  its  destination,  I  have  particu¬ 
lar  reasons  for  not  trusting  it  to  any  other  convey¬ 
ance  ;  so  that  without  your  help,  I  am  wholly  at  a 
loss.” 

“  She  was  not  going  that  way,  sir,  either  to-day, 
or  to-morrow,  nor  indeed  all  next  week,”  the  lady 
graciously  rejoined,  “  but  we  shall  be  very  glad  to 
put  ourselves  out  of  the  way  on  your  account,  and 
if  you  wish  it,  you  may  depend  upon  its  going  to¬ 
day.  You  might  suppose,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  frown¬ 
ing  at  her  husband,  “from  Vardeu’s  sitting  there  so 
glum  and  silent,  that  he  objected  to  this  arrange¬ 
ment;  but  you  must  not  mind  that,  sir,  if  you  please. 
It’s  his  way  at  home.  Out-of-doors,  he  can  be  cheer¬ 
ful  and  talkative  enough.” 

Now,  the  fact  was,  that  the  unfortunate  lock¬ 
smith,  blessing  his  stars  to  find  his  helpmate  in  such 
good  humor,  had  been  sitting  with  a  beaming  face, 
hearing  this  discourse  with  a  joy  past  all  expression. 
Wherefore  this  sudden  attack  quite  took  him  by 
surprise. 

“  My  dear  Martha — ”  he  said. 

“Oh  yes,  I  dare  say,”  interrupted  Mrs.  Varden, 
with  a  smile  of  mingled  scorn  and  pleasantry. 
“  Very  dear !  We  all  know  that.” 

“No,  but  my  good  soul,”  said  Gabriel,  “you  are 
quite  mistaken.  You  are,  indeed.  I  was  delighted 
to  find  you  so  kind  and  ready.  I  waited,  my  dear, 


MBS.  V. 


65 


anxiously,  I  assure  you,  to  bear  what  you  would 
say.” 

“  You  waited  anxiously,”  repeated  Mrs.  Y.  “  Yes ! 
Thank  you,  Varden.  You  waited,  as  you  always  do, 
that  I  might  hear  the  blame,  if  any  came  of  it.  But 
I  am  used  to  it,”  said  the  lady,  with  a  kind  of  sol¬ 
emn  titter,  “  and  that’s  my  comfort !” 

“  I  give  you  my  word,  Martha — ”  said  Gabriel. 

“  Let  me  give  you  my  word,  my  dear,”  interposed 
his  wife  with  a  Christian  smile,  “that  such  discus¬ 
sions  as  these  between  married  people  are  much 
better  left  alone.  Therefore,  if  you  please,  Yarden, 
we’ll  drop  the  subject.  I  have  no  wish  to  pursue  it. 
I  could.  I  might  say  a  great  deal.  But  I  would 
rather  not.  Pray  don’t  say  any  more.” 

“I  don’t  want  to  say  any  more,”  rejoined  the 
goaded  lock-smith. 

“Well,  then,  don’t,”  said  Mrs.  Yarden. 

“Nor  did  I  begin  it,  Martha,”  added  the  lock¬ 
smith,  good-humoredly,  “  I  must  say  that.” 

“You  did  not  begin  it,  Yarden!”  exclaimed  his 
wife,  opening  her  eyes  very  wide  and  looking  round 
upon  the  company,  as  though  she  would  say,  You 
hear  this  man!  “You  did  not  begin  it,  Yarden! 
But  you  shall  not  say  I  was  out  of  temper.  No,  you 
did  not  begin  it,  oh  dear  no,  not  you,  my  dear !” 

“ Well,  well,”  said  the  lock-smith.  “That’s  set¬ 
tled  then.” 

“Oh  yes,”  rejoined  his  wife,  “quite.  If  you  like 
to  say  Dolly  began  it,  my  dear,  I  shall  not  contra¬ 
dict  you.  I  know  my  duty.  I  need  know  it,  I  am 
sure.  I  am  often  obliged  to  bear  it  in  mind,  when 
my  inclination  perhaps  would  be  for  the  moment  to 
forget  it.  Thank  you,  Yarden.”  And  so,  with  a 
mighty  show  of  humility  aud  forgiveness,  she  fold¬ 
ed  her*  hands,  and  looked  round  again,  with  a  smile 
which  plainly  said  “  If  you  desire  to  see  the  first  and 
foremost  among  female  martyrs,  here  she  is,  on  view !” 

This  little  incident,  illustrative  though  it  was  of 
Mrs.  Varden’ s  extraordinary  sweetness  and  amiabil¬ 
ity,  had  so  strong  a  tendency  to  check  the  conversa¬ 
tion  and  to  disconcert  all  parties  but  that  excellent 
lady,  that  only  a  few  monosyllables  were  uttered 
until  Edward  withdrew;  which  he  presently  did, 
thanking  the  lady  of  the  house  a  great  many  times 
for  her  condescension,  and  whispering  in  Dolly’s  ear 
that  he  would  call  on  the  morrow,  in  case  there 
should  happen  to  be  an  answer  to  the  note — which, 
indeed,  she  knew  without  his  telling,  as  Barnaby 
and  his  friend  Grip  had  dropped  in  on  the  previous 
night  to  prepare  her  for  the  visit  which  was  then 
terminating. 

Gabriel,  who  had  attended  Edward  to  the  door, 
came  back  with  his  hands  in  his  pocket ;  and,  after 
fidgeting  about  the  room  in  a  very  uneasy  manner, 
and  casting  a  great  many  sidelong  looks  at  Mrs. 
Varden  (who  with  the  calmest  countenance  in  the 
world  was  five  fathoms  deep  in  the  Protestant  Man¬ 
ual),  inquired  of  Dolly  how  she  meant  to  go.  Dolly 
supposed  by  the  stage-coach,  and  looked  at  her  lady 
mother,  who  finding  herself  silently  appealed  to, 
dived  down  at  least  another  fathom  into  the  Man¬ 
ual,  and  became  unconscious  of  all  earthly  things. 

“  Martha — ”  said  the  lock-smith.  ' 

“I  hear  you,  Yarden,”  said  his  wife,  without  ris¬ 
ing  to  the  surface. 


“  I  am  sorry,  my  dear,  you  have  such  an  objection 
to  the  Maypole  and  old  John,  for  otherways  as  it’s 
a  very  fine  morning,  and  Saturday’s  not  a  busy  day 
with  us,  we  might  have  all  three  gone  to  Chigwell 
in  the  chaise,  and  had  quite  a  happy  day  of  it.” 

Mrs.  Yarden  immediately  closed  the  Manual,  and 
bursting  into  tears,  requested  to  be  led  up  stairs. 

“  What  is  the  matter  now,  Martha  ?”  inquired  the 
lock-smith. 

To  which  Martha  rejoined,  “  Oh !  don’t  speak  to 
me,”  and  protested  in  agony  that  if  any  body  had 
told  her  so,  she  wouldn’t  have  believed  it. 

“  But,  Martha,”  said  Gabriel,  putting  himself  in 
the  way  as  she  was  moving  off  with  the  aid  of  Dol¬ 
ly’s  shoulder,  “  wouldn’t  have  believed  what  ?  Tell 
me  what’s  wrong  now.  Do  tell  me.  Upon  my  soul 
I  don’t  know.  Do  you  know,  child?  Damme!” 
cried  the  lock-smith,  plucking  at  his  wig  in  a  kind 
of  frenzy,  “nobody  does  know,  I  verily  believe,  but 
Miggs !” 

“  Miggs,”  said  Mrs.  Yarden  faintly,  and  with  symp¬ 
toms  of  approaching  incoherence,  “is  attached  to 
me,  and  that  is  sufficient  to  draw  down  hatred  upon 
her  in  this  house.  She  is  a  comfort  to  me,  whatever 
she  may  be  to  others.” 

“  She’s  no  comfort  to  me,”  cried  Gabriel,  made 
bold  by  despair.  “  She’s  the  misery  of  my  life. 
She’s  all  the  plagues  of  Egypt  in  one.” 

“  She’s  considered  so,  I  have  no  doubt,”  said  Mrs. 
Yarden.  “I  was  prepared  for  that;  it’s  natural; 
it’s  of  a  piece  with  the  rest.  When  you  taunt  me 
as  you  do  to  my  face,  how  can  I  wonder  that  you 
taunt  her  behind  her  back!”  And  here  the  inco¬ 
herence  coming  on  very  strong,  Mrs.  Yarden  wept, 
and  laughed,  and  sobbed,  and  shivered,  and  hic¬ 
coughed,  and  choked;  and  said  she  knew  it  was 
very  foolish,  but  she  couldn’t  help  it ;  and  that  when 
she  was  dead  afid  gone,  perhaps  they  would  be  sorry 
for  it — which  really  under  the  circumstances  did  not 
appear  quite  so  probable  as  she  seemed  to  think — 
with  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same  effect.  In  a 
word,  she  passed  with  great  decency  through  all  the 
ceremonies  incidental  to  such  occasions ;  and  being 
supported  up  stairs,  was  deposited  in  a  highly  spas¬ 
modic  state  on  her  own  bed,  where  Miss  Miggs  short¬ 
ly  afterward  flung  herself  upon  the  body. 

The  philosophy  of  all  this  was,  that  Mrs.  Yarden 
wanted  to  go  to  Chigwell ;  that  she  did  not  want  to 
make  any  concession  or  explanation;  that  she  would 
only  go  on  being  implored  and  entreated  so  to  do ; 
and  that  she  would  accept  no  other  terms.  Accord¬ 
ingly,  after  a  vast  amount  of  moaning  and  crying 
up  stairs,  and  much  damping  of  foreheads,  and  vin- 
egaring  of  temples,  and  hartsliorning  of  noses,  and 
so  forth;  and  after  most  pathetic  adjurations  from 
Miggs,  assisted  by  warm  brandy-and- water  not  over- 
weak,  and  divers  other  cordials,  also  of  a  stimulating 
quality,  administered  at  first  in  teaspoonfuls  and  af¬ 
terward  in  increasing  doses,  and  of  which  Miss  Miggs 
herself  partook  as  a  preventive  measure  (for  faint¬ 
ing  is  infectious) ;  after  all  these  remedies,  and  many 
more  too  numerous  to  mention,  but  not  to  take,  had 
been  applied  ;  and  many  verbal  consolations,  moral, 
religious,  aud  miscellaneous,  had  been  superadded 
thereto;  the  lock-smith  humbled  himself,  and  the 
end  was  gained. 


5 


66 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“  If  it’s  only  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  quietness, 
father,”  said  Dolly,  urging  him  to  go  up  stairs. 

“Oh,  Doll,  Doll,”  said  her  good-natured  father. 
“If  you  ever  have  a  husband  of  your  own — ” 

Dolly  glanced  at  the  glass. 

“ — Well,  when  you  have,”  said  the  lock-smith, 
“  never  faint,  my  darling.  More  domestic  unhappi¬ 
ness  has  come  of  easy  fainting,  Doll,  than  from  all 
the  greater  passions  put  together.  Remember  that, 
my  dear,  if  you  would  be  really  happy,  which  you 
never  can  be,  if  your  husband  isn’t.  And  a  word  in 
your  ear,  my  precious.  Never  have  a  Miggs  about 
you !” 

With  this  advice  he  kissed  his  blooming  daughter 
on  the  cheek,  and  slowly  repaired  to  Mrs.  Varden’s 
room ;  where  that  lady,  lying  all  pale  and  languid 
on  her  couch,  was  refreshing  herself  with  a  sight  of 
her  last  new  bonnet,  which  Miggs,  as  a  means  of 
calming  her  scattered  spirits,  displayed  to  the  best 
advantage  at  her  bedside. 

“  Here’s  master,  mim,”  said  Miggs.  “  Oh,  what 
a  happiness  it  is  when  man  and  wife  come  round 
again !  Oh  gracious,  to  think  that  him  and  her 
should  ever  have  a  word  together!”  In  the  energy 
of  these  sentiments,  which  were  uttered  as  an  apos¬ 
trophe  to  the  heavens  in  general,  Miss  Miggs  perched 
the  bonnet  on  the  top  of  her  own  head,  and  folding 
her  hands,  turned  on  her  tears. 

“  I  can’t  help  it,”  cried  Miggs.  “  I  couldn’t,  if  I 
was  to  be  drownded  in  ’em.  She  has  such  a  forgiv¬ 
ing  spirit !  She’ll  forget  all  that  has  passed,  and  go 
along  with  you,  sir — oh,  if  it  was  to  the  world’s  end, 
she’d  go  along  with  you.” 

Mrs.  Varden  with  a  faint  smile  gently  reproved 
her  attendant  for  this  enthusiasm,  and  reminded  her 
at  the  same  time  that  she  was  far  too  unwell  to  ven¬ 
ture  out  that  day. 

“  Oh  no,  you’re  not,  mim,  indeed  you’re  not,”  said 
Miggs ;  “  I  repeal  to  master ;  master  knows  you’re 
not,  mim.  The  hair,  and  motion  of  the  shay,  will 
do  you  good,  mim,  and  you  must  not  give  way,  you 
must  not  raly.  She  must  keep  up,  mustn’t  she,  sir, 
for  all  our  sakes?  I  was  a-telling  her  that,  just 
now.  She  must  remember  us,  even  if  she  forgets 
herself.  Master  will  persuade  you,  mim,  I’m  sure. 
There’s  Miss  Dolly’s  agoing,  you  know,  and  master, 
and  you,  and  all  so  happy  and  so  comfortable.  Oh !” 
cried  Miggs,  turning  on  the  tears  again,  previous  to 
quitting  the  room  in  great  emotion,  “I  never  see 
such  a  blessed  one  as  she  is  for  the  forgiveness  of 
her  spirit,  I  never,  never,  never  did.  Nor  more  did 
master  neither ;  no,  nor  no  one — never !” 

For  five  minutes  or  thereabouts,  Mrs.  Varden  re¬ 
mained  mildly  opposed  to  all  her  husband’s  prayers 
that  she  would  oblige  him  by  taking  a  day’s  pleas¬ 
ure,  but  relenting  at  length,  she  suffered  herself  to 
be  persuaded,  and  granting  him  her  free  forgiveness 
(the  merit  whereof,  she  meekly  said,  rested  with  the 
Manual  and  not  with  her),  desired  that  Miggs  might 
come  and  help  her  dress.  The  handmaid  attended 
promptly,  and  it  is  but  justice  to  their  joint  exer¬ 
tions  to  record  that,  when  the  good  lady  came  down 
stairs  in  course  of  time,  completely  decked  out  for 
the  journey,  she  really  looked  as  if  nothing  had  hap¬ 
pened,  and  appeared  in  the  very  best  health  imagi¬ 
nable. 


As  to  Dolly,  there  she*  was  again,  the  very  pink 
and  pattern  of  good  looks,  in  a  smart  little  cherry- 
colored  mantle,  with  a  hood  of  the  same  drawn  over 
her  head,  and  upon  the  top  of  that  hood,  a  little 
straw  hat  trimmed  with  cherry-colored  ribbons,  and 
worn  the  merest  trifle  on  one  side — just  enough,  in’ 
short,  to  make  it  the  wickedest  and  most  provok¬ 
ing  head-dress  that  ever  malicious  milliner  devised. 
And  not  to  speak  of  the  manner  in  which  these  cher¬ 
ry-colored  decorations  brightened  her  eyes,  or  vied 
with  her  lips,  or  shed  a  new  bloom  on  her  face,  she 
wTore  such  a  cruel  little  muff,  and  such  a  heart-rend- 
iug  pair  of  shoes,  and  was  so  surrounded  and  hemmed 
in,  as  it  were,  by  aggravations  of  all  kinds,  that 
when  Mr.  Tappertit,  holding  the  horse’s  head,  saw 
her  come  out  of  the  house  alone,  such  impulses  came 
over  him  to  decoy  her  into  the  chaise  and  drive  off 
like  mad,  that  he  would  unquestionably  have  done 
it,  but  for  certain  uneasy  doubts  besetting  him  as  to 
the  shortest  way  to  Gretna  Green ;  whether  it  was 
up  the  street  or  down,  or  up  the  right-hand  turning 
or  the  left ;  and  whether,  supposing  all  the  turnpikes 
to  be  carried  by  storm,  the  blacksmith  in  the  end 
would  marry  them  on  credit;  which  by  reason  of 
his  clerical  office  appeared,  even  to  his  excited  im¬ 
agination,  so  unlikely,  that  he  hesitated.  And  while 
he  stood  hesitating,  and  looking  post-chaises-and-six 
at  Dolly,  out  came  his  master  and  his  mistress,  and 
the  constant  Miggs,  and  the  opportunity  was  gone 
forever.  For  now  the  chaise  creaked  upon  its  springs, 
and  Mrs.  Varden  was  inside;  and  now  it  creaked 
again,  and  more  than  ever,  and  the  lock-smith  was 
inside ;  and  now  it  hounded  once,  as  if  its  heart  beat 
lightly,  and  Dolly  was  inside ;  and  now  it  was  gone 
and  its  place  was  empty,  and  he  and  that  dreary 
Miggs  were  standing  in  the  street  together. 

The  hearty  lock-smith  was  in  as  good  a  humor  as 
if  nothing  had  occurred  for  the  last  twelve  months 
to  put  him  out  of  his  way,  Dolly  was  all  smiles  and 
graces,  and  Mrs.  Varden  was  agreeable  beyond  all 
precedent.  As  they  jogged  through  the  streets  talk¬ 
ing  of  this  thing  and  of  that,  who  should  be  descried 
upon  the  pavement  but  that  very  coach-maker,  look¬ 
ing  so  genteel  that  nobody  would  have  believed  he 
had  ever  had  any  thing  to  do  with  a  coach  but  rid¬ 
ing  in  it,  and  bowing  like  any  nobleman.  To  be 
sure  Dolly  was  confused  when  she  bowed  again,  and 
to  be  sure  the  cherry-colored  ribbons  trembled  a  lit¬ 
tle  when  she  met  his  mournful  eye,  which  seemed. to 
say,  “I  have  kept  my  word,  I  have  begun,  the  busi¬ 
ness  is  going  to  the  devil,  and  you’re  the  cause  of  it.” 
There  lie  stood,  rooted  to  the  ground :  as  Dolly  said, 
like  a  statue ;  and  as  Mrs.  Varden  said,  like  a  pump  ; 
till  they  turned  the  corner :  and  when  her  father 
thought  it  was  like  his  impudence,  and  her  mother 
wondered  what  he  meant  by  it,  Dolly  blushed  again 
till  her  very  hood  was  pale. 

But  on  they  went,  not  the  less  merrily  for  this,  and 
there  was  the  lock-smith  in  the  incautious  fullness 
of  his  heart  “pulling-up”  at  all  manner  of  places, 
aud  evincing  a  most  intimate  acquaintance  with  all 
the  taverns  on  the  road,  and  all  the  landlords  and  all 
the  landladies,  with  whom,  indeed,  the  little  horse 
was  on  equally  friendly  terms,  for  he  kept  on  stop¬ 
ping  of  his  own  accord.  Never  were  people  so  glad 
to  see  other  people  as  these  landlords  and  landladies 


THE  MAYPOLE  BAB. 


67 


were  to  behold  Mr.  Varden  and  Mrs.  Yarden  and  Miss 
Yarden ;  and  wouldn’t  they  get  out,  said  one ;  and 
they  really  must  walk  up  stairs,  said  another;  and 
she  would  take  it  ill  and  be  quite  certain  they  were 
proud  if  they  wouldn’t  have  a  little  taste  of  some¬ 
thing,  said  a  third ;  and  so  on,  that  it  was  really  quite 
a  Progress  rather  than  a  ride,  and  one  continued 
.scene  of  hospitality  from  beginning  to  end.  It  was 
pleasant  enough  to  be  held  in  such  esteem,  not  to 
mention  the  refreshments ;  so  Mrs.  Yarden  said  noth¬ 
ing  at  the  time,  and  was  all  affability  and  delight — 
but  such  a  body  of  evidence  as  she  collected  against 
the  unfortunate  lock -smith  that  day,  to  be  used 
thereafter  as  occasion  might  require,  never  was  got 
together  for  matrimonial  purposes. 

In  course  of  time— and  in  course  of  a  pretty  long 
time  too,  for  these  agreeable  interruptions  delayed 
them  not  a  little — they  arrived  upon  the  skirts  of 
the  Forest,  and  riding  pleasantly  on  among  the  trees, 
came  at  last  to  the  Maypole,  where  the  lock-smith’s 
cheerful  “  Yoho !”  speedily  brought  to  the  porch  old 
John,  and  after  him  young  Joe,  both  of  whom  were 
so  transfixed  at  sight  of  the  ladies,  that  for  a  mo¬ 
ment  they  were  perfectly  unable  to  give  them  any 
welcome,  and  could  do  nothing  but  stare. 

It  was  only  for  a  moment,  however,  that  Joe  for¬ 
got  himself,  for,  speedily  reviving,  he  thrust  his 
drowsy  father  aside — to  Mr.  Willet’s  mighty  and 
inexpressible  indignation — and  darting  out,  stood 
ready  to  help  them  to  alight.  It  was  necessary  for 
Dolly  to  get  out  first.  Joe  had  her  in  his  arms; 
yes,  though  for  a  space  of  time  no  longer  than  you 
could  count  one  in,  Joe  had  her  in  his  arms.  Here 
was  a  glimpse  of  happiness ! 

It  would  be  difficult  to  describe  what  a  flat  and 
commonplace  affair  the  helping  Mrs.  Yarden  out  af¬ 
terward  was,  but  Joe  did  it,  and  did  it  too  with  the 
best  grace  in  the  world.  Then  old  John,  who,  en¬ 
tertaining  a  dull  and  foggy  sort  of  idea  that  Mrs. 
Varden  wasn’t  fond  of  him,  had  been  in  some  doubt 
whether  she  might  not  have  come  for  purposes  of 
assault  and  battery,  took  courage,  hoped  she  was 
well,  and  offered  to  conduct  her  into  the  house. 
This  tender  being  amicably  received,  they  marched 
in  together ;  Joe  and  Dolly  followed,  arm  in  arm 
(happiness  again!),  and  Yarden  brought  up  the 
rear. 

Old  John  would  have  it  that  they  must  sit  in  the 
bar,  and  nobody  objecting,  into  the  bar  they  went. 
All  bars  are  snug  places,  but  the  Maypole’s  was  the 
very  snuggest,  coziest,  and  completest  bar  that  ever 
the  wit  of  man  devised.  Such  amazing  bottles  in  old 
oaken  pigeon-holes ;  such  gleaming  tankards  dan¬ 
gling  from  pegs  at  about  the  same  inclination  as 
thirsty  men  would  hold  them  to  their  lips;  such 
sturdy  little  Dutch  kegs  ranged  in  rows  on  shelves ; 
so  many  lemons  hanging  in  separate  nets,  and  form¬ 
ing  the  fragrant  grove  already  mentioned  in  this 
chronicle,  suggestive,  with  goodly  loaves  of  snowy 
sugar  stowed  away  hard  by,  of  punch,  idealized  be¬ 
yond  all  inortal  knowledge ;  such  closets,  such  press¬ 
es,  such  drawers  full  of  pipes,  such  places  for  put¬ 
ting  things  away  in  hollow  window-seats,  all  cram¬ 
med  to  the  throat  with  eatables,  drinkables,  or  sa¬ 
vory  condiments ;  lastly,  and  to  crown  all,  as  typical 
of  the  immense  resources  of  the  establishment,  and 


its  defiance  to  all  visitors  to  cut  and  come  again, 
such  a  stupendous  cheese ! 

It  is  a  poor  heart  that  never  rejoices — it  must 
have  been  the  poorest,  weakest,  and  most  watery 
heart  that  ever  beat,  which  would  not  have  warmed 
toward  the  Maypole  bar.  Mrs.  Yarden’s  did  direct¬ 
ly.  She  could  no  more  have  reproached  John  Wil- 
let  among  those  household  gods,  the  kegs  and  bot¬ 
tles,  lemons,  pipes,  and  cheese,  than  she  could  have 
stabbed  him  with  his  own  bright  carving-knife. 
The  order  for  dinner  too — it  might  have  soothed  a 
savage.  “A  bit  of  fish,”  said  John  to  the  cook, 
“and  some  lamb -chops  (breaded,  with  plenty  of 
catchup),  and  a  good  salad,  and  a  roast  spring  chick¬ 
en,  with  a  dish  of  sausages  and  mashed  potatoes,  or 
something  of  that  sort.”  Something  of  that  sort! 
The  resources  of  these  inns !  To  talk  carelessly 
about  dishes,  which  in  themselves  were  a  first-rate 
holiday  kind  of  dinner,  suitable  to  one’s  wedding- 
day,  or  something  of  that  sort :  meaning,  if  you  can’t 
get  a  spring  chicken,  any  other  trifle  in  the  way  of 
poultry  will  do — such  as  a  peacock,  perhaps !  The 
kitchen  too,  with  its  great  broad  cavernous  chim¬ 
ney  ;  the' kitchen,  where  nothing  in  the  way  of  cook¬ 
ery  seemed  impossible;  where  you  could  believe  in 
any  thing  to  eat  they  chose  to  tell  you  of.  Mrs. 
Yarden  returned  from  the  contemplation  of  these 
wonders  to  the  bar  again,  with  a  head  quite  dizzy 
and  bewildered.  Her  housekeeping  capacity  was 
not  large  enough  to  comprehend  them.  She  was 
obliged  to  go  to  sleep.  Waking  was  pain,  in  the 
midst  of  such  immensity. 

Dolly  in  the  mean  while,  whose  gay  heart  and  head 
ran  upon  other  matters,  passed  out  at  the  garden 
door,  and  glancing  back  now  and  then  (but  of  course 
not  wondering  whether  Joe  saw  her),  tripped  away 
by  a  path  across  the  fields  with  which  she  was  well 
acquainted,  to  discharge  her  mission  at  the  Warren ; 
and  this  deponent  hath  been  informed  and  verily 
believes,  that  you  might  have  seen  many  less  pleas¬ 
ant  objects  than  the  cherry-colored  mantle  and  rib¬ 
bons  as  they  went  fluttering  along  the  green  mead¬ 
ows  in  the  bright  light  of  the  day,  like  giddy  things 
as  they  were. 

- » 

CHAPTER  XX. 

THE  proud  consciousness  of  her  trust,  and  the 
great  importance  she  derived  from  it,  might 
have  advertised  it  to  all  the  house  if  she  had  had  to 
run  the  gauntlet  of  its  inhabitants ;  but  as  Dolly 
had  played  in  every  dull  room  and  passage  many 
and  many  a  time,  when  a  child,  and  had  ever  since 
been  the  humble  friend  of  Miss  Haredale,  whose  fos¬ 
ter-sister  she  was,  she  was  as  free  of  the  building  as 
the  young  lady  herself.  So,  using  no  greater  pre¬ 
caution  than  holding  her  breath  and  walking  on 
tiptoe  as  she  passed  the  library  door,  she  went 
straight  to  Emma’s  room  as  a  privileged  visitor. 

It  was  the  liveliest  room  in  the  building.  The 
chamber  was  sombre  like  the  rest  for  the  matter  of 
that,  but  the  presence  of  youth  and  beauty  would 
make  a  prison  cheerful  (saving,  alas!  that  confine¬ 
ment  withers  them),  and  lend  some  charms  of  their 


68 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


own  to  the  gloomiest  scene.  Birds,  flowers,  .books, 
drawing,  music,  and  a  hundred  such  graceful  tokens 
of  femiuine  loves  and  cares,  filled  it  with  more  of 
life  and  human  sympathy  than  the  whole  house  be¬ 
sides  seemed  made  to  hold.  There  was  heart  in  the 
room ;  and  who  that  has  a  heart,  ever  fails  to  rec¬ 
ognize  the  silent  presence  of  another ! 

Dolly  had  one  undoubtedly,  and  it  was  not  a 
tough  one  either,  though  there  was  a  little  mist  of 
coquettishness  about  it,  such  as  sometimes  surrounds 
that  sun  of  life  in  its  morning,  and  slightly  dims  its 
lustre.  Thus,  when  Emma  rose  to  greet  her,  and 
kissing  her  affectionately  on  the  cheek,  told  her,  in 
her  quiet  way,  that  she  had  been  very  unhappy,  the 
tears  stood  in  Dolly’s  eyes,  aud  she  felt  more  sorry 
than  she  could  tell ;  but  next  moment  she  happened 
to  raise  them  to  the  glass,  and  really  there  was 
something  there  so  exceedingly  agreeable,  that  as 
she  sighed,  she  smiled,  and  felt  surprisingly  con¬ 
soled. 

“  I  have  heard  about  it,  Miss,”  said  Dolly,  “  and 
it’s  very  sad  indeed;  but  when  things  are  at  the 
worst  they  are  sure  to  mend.” 

“  But  are  you  sure  they  are  at  the  worst  ?”  asked 
Emma,  with  a  smile. 

“Why,  I  don’t  see  how  they  can  very  well  be 
more  unpromising  than  they  are;  I  really  don’t,” 
said  Dolly.  “And  I  bring  something  to  begin  with.” 

“Not  from  Edward?” 

Dolly  nodded  and  smiled,  and  feeling  in  her  pock¬ 
ets  (there  were  pockets  in  those  days)  with  an  af¬ 
fectation  of  not  being  able  to  find  what  she  wanted, 
which  greatly  enhanced  her  importance,  at  length 
produced  the  letter.  As  Emma  hastily  broke  the 
seal  and  became  absorbed  in  its  contents,  Dolly’s 
eyes,  by  one  of  those  strange  accidents  for  which 
there  is  no  accounting,  wandered  to  the  glass  again. 
She  could  not  help  wondering  whether  the  coach- 
maker  suffered  very  much,  and  quite  pitied  the  poor 
man. 

It  was  a  long  letter — a  very  long  letter,  written 
close  on  all  four  sides  of  the  sheet  of  paper,  and 
crossed  afterward ;  but  it  was  not  a  consolatory  let¬ 
ter,  for  as  Emma  read  it  she  stopped  from  time  to 
time  to  put  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes.  To  be 
sure  Dolly  marveled  greatly  to  see  her  in  so  much 
distress,  for  to  her  thinking  a  love-affair  ought  to 
be  one  of  the  best  jokes,  and  the  slyest,  merriest 
kind  of  thing  in  life.  But  she  set  it  down  in  her 
own  mind  that  all  this  came  from  Miss  Haredale’s 
being  so  constant,  and  that  if  she  would  only  take 
on  with  some  other  young  gentleman — just  in  the 
most  innocent  way  possible,  to  keep  her  first  lover 
up  to  the  mark — she  would  find  herself  inexpressi¬ 
bly  comforted. 

“  I  am  sure  that’s  what  I  should  do  if  it  was  me,” 
thought  Dolly.  “To  make  one’s  sweetheart  miser¬ 
able  is  well  enough  and  quite  right,  but  to  be  made 
miserable  one’s  self  is  a  little  too  much !” 

However  it  wouldn’t  do  to  say  so,  and  therefore 
she  sat  looking  on  in  silence.  She  needed  a  pretty 
considerable  stretch  of  patience,  for  when  the  long 
letter  had  been  read  once  all  through  it  was  read 
again,  and  when  it  had  been  read  twice  all  through 
it  was  read  again.  During  this  tedious  process, 
Dolly  beguiled  the  time  in  the  most  improving  man¬ 


ner  that  occurred  to  her,  by  curling  her  hair  on  her 
fingers,  with  the  aid  of  the  looking-glass  before  men¬ 
tioned,  and  giving  it  some  killing  twists. 

Every  thing  has  an  end.  Even  young  ladies  in 
love  can  not  read  their  letters  forever.  In  course  of 
time  the  packet  was  folded  up,  and  it  only  remained 
to  write  the  answer. 

But  as  this  promised  to  be  a  work  of  time  like¬ 
wise,  Emma  said  she  would  put  it  off  until  after 
dinner,  and  that  Dolly  must  dine  with  her.  As  Dol¬ 
ly  had  made  up  her  mind  to  do  so  beforehand,  she 
required  very  little  pressing;  and  when  they  had 
settled  this  point,  they  went  to  walk  in  the  garden. 

They  strolled  up  and  down  the  terrace  walks, 
talking  incessantly — at  least,  Dolly  never  left  off 
once  —  aud  making  that  quarter  of  the  sad  and 
mournful  house  quite  gay.  Not  that  they  talked 
loudly  or  laughed  much,  but  they  were  both  so  very 
handsome,  and  it  was  such  a  breezy  day,  and  their 
light  dresses  and  dark  curls  appeared  so  free  and 
joyous  in  their  abandonment,  aud  Emma  was  so 
fair,  and  Dolly  so  rosy,  and  Emma  so  delicately 
shaped,  and  Dolly  so  plump,  and — in  short,  there 
are  no  flowers  for  any  garden  like  such  flowers,  let 
horticulturists  say  what  they  may,  and  both  house 
and  garden  seemed  to  know  it,  and  to  brighten  up 
sensibly. 

After  this,  came  the  dinner  and  the  letter -writ¬ 
ing,  and  some  more  talking,  in  the  course  of  which 
Miss  Haredale  took  occasion  to  charge  upon  Dolly 
certain  flirtish  and  inconstant  propensities,  which 
accusations  Dolly  seemed  to  think  very  compliment¬ 
ary  indeed,  and  to  be  mightily  amused  with.  Find¬ 
ing  her  quite  incorrigible  in  this  respect,  Emma  suf¬ 
fered  her  to  depart ;  but  not  before  she  had  confided 
to  her  that  important  and  never-sufficiently-to-be¬ 
taken  -  care  -  of  answer,  and  endowed  her  moreover 
with  a  pretty  little  bracelet  as  a  keepsake.  Having 
clasped  it  on  her  arm,  and  again  advised  her  half  in 
jest  and  half  in  earnest  to  amend  her  roguish  ways, 
for  she  knew  she  was  fond  of  Joe  at  heart  (which 
Dolly  stoutly  denied,  with  a  great  many  haughty 
protestations  that  she  hoped  she  could  do  better 
than  that  indeed!  and  so  forth),  she  bade  her  fare¬ 
well  ;  and  after  calling  her  back  to  give  her  more 
supplementary  messages  for  Edward,  than  any  body 
with  tenfold  the  gravity  of  Dolly  Varden  could  be 
reasonably  expected  to  remember,  at  length  dis¬ 
missed  her. 

Dolly  bade  her  good-bye,  and  tripping  lightly 
down  the  stairs  arrived  at  the  dreaded  library  door, 
and  was  about  to  pass  it  again  on  tiptoe,  when  it 
opened,  and  behold !  there  stood  Mr.  Haredale.  Now, 
Dolly  had  from  her  childhood  associated  with  this 
gentleman  the  idea  of  something  grim  and  ghostly, 
and  being  at  the  moment  conscience -stricken  be¬ 
sides,  the  sight  of  him  threw  her  into  such  a  flurry 
that  she  could  neither  acknowledge  his  presence  nor 
run  away,  so  she  gave  a  great  start,  and  then  with 
downcast  eyes  stood  still  and  trembled. 

“  Come  here,  girl,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  taking  her 
by  the  hand.  “  I  want  to  speak  to  you.” 

“If  you  please,  sir,  I’m  in  a  hurry,”  faltered  Dol¬ 
ly;  “and — you  have  frightened  me  by  coming  so 
suddenly  upon  me,  sir — I  would  rather  go,  sir,  if 
you’ll  be  so  good  as  to  let  me.” 


DOLLY  AND  MR.  EARED  ALE. 


69 


“  Immediately,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  who  had  by 
this  time  led  her  into  the  room  and  closed  the  door. 
“  You  shall  go  directly.  You  have  just  left  Emma  ?” 

“Yes,  sir,  just  this  minute. — Father’s  waiting  for 
me,  sir,  if  you’ll  please  to  have  the  goodness — ” 

“I  know.  I  know,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “An¬ 
swer  me  a  question.  What  did  you  bring  here  to¬ 
day  t” 


“You  alarm  yourself  without  cause,”  said  Mr. 
Haredale.  “  Why  are  you  so  foolish  ?  Surely  you 
can  answer  me.  You  know  that  I  have  hut  to  put 
the  question  to  Emma  and  learn  the  truth  directly. 
Have  you  the  answer  with  you  ?” 

Dolly  had  what  is  popularly  called  a  spirit  of  her 
own,  and  being  now  fairly  at  bay,  made  the  best 
of  it. 


EMMA  HAREDALE  AND  DOLLY  Y ARDEN. 


“  Bring  here,  sir  ?”  faltered  Dolly. 

“  You  will  tell  me  the  truth,  I  am  sure.  Yes.” 

Dolly  hesitated  for  a  little  while,  and  somewhat 
emboldened  by  his  manner,  said  at  last,  “Well  then, 
sir.  It  was  a  letter.” 

“  From  Mr.  Edward  Chester,  of  course.  And  you 
are  the  hearer  of  the  answer  ?” 

Dolly  hesitated  again,  and  not  being  able  to  decide 
upon  any  other  course  of  action,  burst  into  tears. 


“Yes,  sir,”  she  rejoined,  trembling  and  frightened 
as  she  was.  “Yes,  sir,  I  have.  You  may  kill  me 
if  you  please,  sir,  but  I  won’t  give  it  up.  I  m  very 
sorry — but  I  won’t.  There,  sir.” 

“  I  commend  your  firmness  and  your  plain-speak¬ 
ing,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “  Rest  assured  that  I  have 
as  little  desire  to  take  your  letter  as  your  life.  You 
are  a  very  cliscreet  messenger  and  a  good  girl.” 

Not  feeling  quite  certain,  as  she  afterward  said, 


70 


BARNABY  RTJDGE. 


whether  he  might  not  he  “coming  over  her”  with 
these  compliments,  Dolly  kept  as  far  from  him  as 
she  could,  cried  again,  and  resolved  to  defend  her 
pocket  (for  the  letter  was  there)  to  the  last  extrem¬ 
ity. 

“  I  have  some  design,”  said  Mr.  Haredale  after  a 
short  silence,  during  which  a  smile,  as  he  regarded 
her,  had  struggled  through  the  gloom  and  melan¬ 
choly  that  was  natural  to  his  face,  “  of  providing  a 
companion  for  my  niece ;  for  her  life  is  a  very  lonely 
one.  Would  you  like  the  office?  You  are  the  old¬ 
est  friend  she  has,  and  the  best  entitled  to  it.” 

“  I  don’t  know,  sir,”  answered  Dolly,  not  sure  hut 
he  was  bantering  her;  “I  can’t  say.  I  don’t  know 
what  they  might  wish  at  home.  I  couldn’t  give  an 
opinion,  sir.” 

“  If  your  friends  had  no  objection,  would  you  have 
any  ?”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “  Come.  There’s  a  plain 
question ;  and  easy  to  answer.” 

“  None  at  all  that  I  know  of,  sir,”  replied  Dolly. 
“  I  should  be  very  glad  to  be  near  Miss  Emma  of 
course,  and  always  am.” 

“  That’s  well,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “  That  is  all  I 
had  to  say.  You  are  anxious  to  go.  Don’t  let  me 
detain  you.” 

Dolly  didn’t  let  him,  nor  did  she  wait  for  him  to 
try,  for  the  words  had  no  sooner  passed  his  lips  than 
she  was  out  of  the  room,  out  of  the  house,  and  in  the 
fields  again. 

The  first  thing  to  be  done,  of  course,  when  she 
came  to  herself,  and  considered  what  a  flurry  she 
had  been  in,  was  to  cry  afresh ;  and  the  next  thing, 
when  she  reflected  how  well  she  had  got  over  it, 
was  to  laugh  heartily.  The  tears  once  banished 
gave  place  to  the  smiles,  and  at  last  Dolly  laughed 
so  much  that  she  was  fain  to  lean  against  a  tree,  and 
give  vent  to  her  exultation.  When  she  could  laugh 
no  longer,  and  was  quite  tired,  she  put  her  head¬ 
dress  to  rights,  dried  her  eyes,  looked  back  very 
merrily  and  triumphantly  at  the  Warren  chimneys, 
which  were  just  visible,  and  resumed  her  walk. 

The  twilight  had  come  on,  and  it  was  quickly 
growing  dusk,  but  the  path  was  so  familiar  to  her 
from  frequent  traversing  that  she  hardly  thought 
of  this,  and  certainly  felt  no  uneasiness  at  being  left 
alone.  Moreover,  there  was  the  bracelet  to  admire ; 
and  when  she  had  given  it  a  good  rub,  and  held  it 
out  at  arm’s  length,  it  sparkled  and  glittered  so 
beautifully  on  her  wrist,  that  to  look  at  it  in  every 
point  of  view  and  with  every  possible  turn  of  the 
arm,  was  quite  an  absorbing  busiuess.  There  was 
the  letter  too,  and  it  looked  so  mysterious  and  know¬ 
ing,  when  she  took  it  out  of  her  pocket,  and  it  held, 
as  she  knew,  so  much  inside,  that  to  turn  it  over  and 
over,  and  think  about  it,  and  wonder  how  it  began, 
and  how  it  ended,  and  what  it  said  all  through,  was 
another  matter  of  constant  occupation.  Between 
the  bracelet  and  the  letter,  there  was  quite  enough 
to  do  without  thinking  of  any  thing  else ;  and  ad¬ 
miring  each  by  turns,  Dolly  went  on  gayly. 

As  she  passed  through  a  wicket-gate  to  where  the 
path  was  narrow,  and  lay  between  two  hedges  gar¬ 
nished  here  and  there  with  trees,  she  heard  a  rus- 
tliug  close  at  hand,  which  brought  her  to  a  sudden 
stop.  She  listened.  All  was  very  quiet,  and  she 
went  ou  again — not  absolutely  frightened,  but  a  lit¬ 


tle  quicker  than  before  perhaps,  and  possibly  not 
quite  so  much  at  her  ease,  for  a  check  of  that  kind  is 
startling. 

She  had  no  sooner  moved  on  again,  than  she  was 
conscious  of  the  same  sound,  which  was  like  that 
of  a  person  tramping  stealthily  among  bushes  and 
brush-wood.  Looking  toward  the  spot  whence  it 
appeared  to  come,  she  almost  fancied  she  could  make 
out  a  crouching  figure.  She  stopped  again.  All 
was  quiet  as  before.  On  she  went  once  more — de¬ 
cidedly  faster  now — and  tried  to  sing  softly  to  her¬ 
self.  It  must  be  the  wind. 

But  how  came  the  wind  to  blow  only  when  she 
walked,  and  cease  when  she  stood  still?  She  stop¬ 
ped  involuntarily  as  she  made  the  reflection,  and  the 
rustling  noise  stopped  likewise.  She  was  really 
frightened  now,  and  was  yet  hesitating  what  to  do, 
when  the  bushes  crackled  and  snapped,  and  a  man 
came  plunging  through  them,  close  before  her. 

■» 

CHAPTER  XXI. 

IT  was  for  the  moment  an  inexpressible  relief  to 
Dolly,  to  recognize  in  the  person  who  forced  him¬ 
self  into  the  path  so  abruptly,  and  now  stood  direct¬ 
ly  in  her  way,  Hugh  of  the  Maypole,  whose  name 
she  uttered  in  a  tone  of  delighted  surprise  that  came 
from  her  heart. 

“Was  it  you?”  she  said ;  “how  glad  I  am  to  see 
you!  and  how  could  you  terrify  me  so !” 

In  answer  to  which,  he  said  nothing  at  all,  but 
stood  quite  still,  looking  at  her. 

“  Did  you  come  to  meet  me  ?”  asked  Dolly. 

Hugh  nodded,  and  muttered  something  to  the  ef¬ 
fect  that  he  had  been  waiting  for  her,  and  had  ex¬ 
pected  her  sooner. 

“  I  thought  it  likely  they  would  send,”  said  Dolly, 
greatly  re-assured  by  this. 

“Nobody  sent  me,”  was  the  sullen  answer.  “I 
came  of  my  own  accord.” 

The  rough  bearing  of  this  fellow,  and  his  wild,  un¬ 
couth  appearance,  had  often  filled  the  girl  with  a 
vague  apprehension  even  when  other  people  were 
by,  and  had  occasioned  her  to  shrink  from  him  in¬ 
voluntarily.  The  having  him  for  an  unbidden  com¬ 
panion  in  so  solitary  a  place,  with  the  darkness  fast 
gathering  about  them,  renewed  and  even  increased 
the  alarm  she  had  felt  at  first. 

If  his  manner  had  been  merely  dogged  and  pas¬ 
sively  fierce,  as  usual,  she  would  have  had  no  great¬ 
er  dislike  to  his  company  than  she  always  felt — per¬ 
haps,  indeed,  would  have  been  rather  glad  to  have 
had  him  at  hand.  But  there  was  something  of 
coarse  bold  admiration  in  his  look,  which  terrified 
her  very  much.  She  glanced  timidly  toward  him, 
uncertain  whether  to  go  forward  or  retreat,  and  lie. 
stood  gazing  at  her  like  a  handsome  satyr;  and  so 
they  remained  for  some  short  time  without  stirring 
or  breaking  silence.  At  length  Dolly  took  courage, 
shot  past  him,  and  hurried  on. 

“  Why  do  you  spend  so  much  breath  in  avoiding 
me?”  said  Hugh,  accommodating  his  pace  to  hers, 
and  keeping  close  at  her  side. 


DOLLY  FRIGHTENED  AND  RESCUED. 


71 


“  I  wish  to  get  back  as  quickly  as  I  can,  and  you 
walk  too  near  me,”  answered  Dolly. 

“  Too  near !”  said  Hugh,  stooping  over  her  so  that 
she  could  feel  his  breath  upon  her  forehead.  “  Why 
too  near  ?  You’re  always  proud  to  me,  mistress.” 

“I  am  proud  to  no  one.  You  mistake  me,”  an¬ 
swered  Dolly.  “  Fall  back,  if  you  please,  or  go  on.” 

“Nay,  mistress,”  he  rejoined,  endeavoring  to  draw 
her  arm  through  his,  “  I’ll  walk  with  you.” 

She  released  herself,  aud  clenching  her  little  hand, 
struck  him  with  right  good  will.  At  this,  Maypole 
Hugh  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  and  passing  his 
arm  about  her  waist,  held  her  in  his  strong  grasp  as 
easily  as  if  she  had  been  a  bird. 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!  Well  done,  mistress  !  Strike  again. 
You  shall  beat  my  face,  aud  tear  my  hair,  and  pluck 
my  beard  up  by  the  roots,  aud  welcome,  for  the  sake 
of  your  bright  eyes.  Strike  again,  mistress.  Do. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  I  like  it.” 

“  Let  me  go,”  she  cried,  endeavoring  with  both  her 
hands  to  push  him  off.  “  Let  me  go  this  moment.” 

“You  had  as  good  be  kinder  to  me,  Sweetlips,” 
said  Hugh.  “You  had,  indeed.  Come.  Tell  me 
now.  Why  are  you  always  so  proud  ?  I  don’t  quar¬ 
rel  with  you  for  it.  I  love  you  when  you’re  proud. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  You  can’t  hide  your  beauty  from  a  poor 
fellow ;  that’s  a  comfort !” 

She  gave  him  no  answer,  but  as  he  had  not  yet 
checked  her  progress,  continued  to  press  forward  as 
rapidly  as  she  could.  At  length,  between  the  hurry 
she  had  made,  her  terror,  and  the  tightness  of  his 
embrace,  her  strength  failed  her,  and  she  could  go 
no  farther. 

“  Hugh,”  cried  the  panting  girl,  “  good  Hugh ;  if 
you  will  leave  me  I  will  give  you  any  thing — every 
thing  I  have — and  never  tell  one  word  of  this  to  any 
living  creature.” 

“You  had  best  not,”  he  answered.  “  Harkye,  lit¬ 
tle  dove,  ye  had  best  not.  All  about  here  know  me, 
and  what  I  dare  do  if  I  have  a  mind.  If  ever  you 
are  going  to  tell,  stop  when  the  words  are  on  your 
lips,  and  think  of  the  mischief  you’ll  bring,  if  you  do, 
upon  some  innocent  heads  that  you  wouldn’t  wish 
to  hurt  a  hair  of.  Bring  trouble  on  me,  and  I’ll 
bring  trouble  and  something  more  on  them  in  re¬ 
turn.  I  care  no  more  for  them  than  for  so  many 
dogs ;  not  so  much — why  should  I  ?  I’d  sooner  kill 
a  man  than  a  dog  any  day.  I’ve  never  been  sorry 
for  a  man’s  death  in  all  my  life,  and  I  have  for  a 
dog’s.” 

There  was  something  so  thoroughly  savage  in  the 
manner  of  these  expressions,  and  the  looks  aud  ges¬ 
tures  by  which  they  were  accompanied,  that  her 
great  fear  of  him  gave  her  new  strength,  and  enabled 
her  by  a  sudden  effort  to  extricate  herself  and  run 
fleetly  from  him.  But  Hugh  was  as  nimble,  strong, 
and  swift  of  foot,  as  any  man  in  broad  England,  and 
it  was  but  a  fruitless  expenditure  of  energy,  for  he 
had  her  in  his  encircling  arms  again  before  she  had 
gone  a  hundred  yards. 

“Softly,  darling  —  gently  —  would  you  fly  from 
rough  Hugh,  that  loves  you  as  well  as  any  drawing¬ 
room  gallant  ?” 

“  I  would,”  she  answered,  struggling  to  free  her¬ 
self  again,  “  I  will.  Help.” 

“  A  flne  for  crying  out,”  said  Hugh.  “  Ha,  ha,  ha  ! 


A  fine,  pretty  one,  from  your  lips.  I  pay  myself!  Ha, 
ha,  ha!” 

“  Help !  help  !  help !”  As  she  shrieked  with  the  ut¬ 
most  violence  she  could  exert,  a  shout  was  heard  in 
answer,  and  another,  and  another. 

“  Thank  Heaven !”  cried  the  girl  in  an  ecstasy. 
“Joe,  dear  Joe,  this  way.  Help !” 

Her  assailant  paused,  and  stood  irresolute  for  a 
moment,  but  the  shouts  drawing  nearer  and  coming- 
quick  upon  them,  forced  him  to  a  speedy  decision. 
He  released  her,  whispered  with  a  menacing  look, 
“  Tell  Mm  :  and  see  what  follows !”  and  leaping  the 
hedge,  was  gone  in  an  instant.  Dolly  darted  off,  and 
fairly  ran  into  Joe  Willet’s  open  arms. 

“  What  is  the  matter  ?  are  you  hurt  ?  what  was  it  ? 
who  was  it  ?  where  is  he  ?  what  was  he  like  ?”  with 
a  great  many  encouraging  expressions  and  assur¬ 
ances  of  safety,  were  the  first  words  Joe  poured  forth. 
But  poor  little  Dolly  was  so  breathless  and  terrified 
that  for  some  time  she  was  quite  unable  to  answer 
him,  and  hung  upon  his  shoulder,  sobbing  and  cry¬ 
ing  as  if  her  heart  would  break. 

Joe  had  not  the  smallest  objection  to  have  her 
hanging  on  his  shoulder;  no,  not  the  least,  though  it 
crushed  the  cherry-colored  ribbons  sadly,  and  put 
the  smart  little  hat  out  of  all  shape.  But  he  couldn’t 
bear  to  see  her  cry  ;  it  went  to  his  very  heart.  He 
tried  to  console  her,  bent  over  her,  whispered  to  her 
—some  say  kissed  her,  but  that’s  a  fable.  At  any 
rate  he  said  all  the  kind  and  tender  things  he  could 
think  of,  and  Dolly  let  him  go  on  and  didn’t  inter¬ 
rupt  him  once,  and  it  was  a  good  ten  minutes  before 
she  was  able  to  raise  her  head  and  thank  him. 

“  What  was  it  that  frightened  you  ?”  said  Joe. 

A  man  whose  person  was  unknown  to  her  had  fol¬ 
lowed  her,  she  answered ;  he  began  by  begging,  and 
went  on  to  threats  of  robbery,  which  he  was  on  the 
point  of  carrying  into  execution,  and  would  have 
executed,  but  for  Joe’s  timely  aid.  The  hesitation 
and  confusion  with  which  she  said  this,  Joe  attrib¬ 
uted  to  the  fright  she  had  sustained,  and  no  suspi¬ 
cion  of  the  truth  occurred  to  him  for  a  moment. 

“  Stop  when  the  words  are  on  your  lips.”  A  hun¬ 
dred  times  that  night,  and  very  often  afterward, 
when  the  disclosure  was  rising  to  her  tongue,  Dolly 
thought  of  that,  and  repressed  it.  A  deeply-rooted 
dread  of  the  man ;  the  conviction  that  his  ferocious 
nature,  once  roused,  would  stop  at  nothing;  and 
the  strong  assurance  that  if  she  impeached  him,  the 
full  measure  of  his  wrath  and  vengeance  would  be 
wreaked  on  Joe,  who  had  preserved  her;  these  were 
considerations  she  had  not  the  courage  to  overcome, 
and  inducements  to  secrecy  too  powerful  for  her  to 
surmount. 

Joe,  for  his  part,  was  a  great  deal  too  happy  to  in¬ 
quire  very  curiously  into  the  matter ;  and  Dolly  being 
yet  too  tremulous  to  walk  without  assistance,  they 
went  forward  very  slowly,  and  in  his  mind  very 
pleasantly,  uutil  the  Maypole  lights  were  near  at 
hand,  twinkling  their  cheerful  welcome,  when  Dolly 
stopped  suddenly  and  with  a  half-scream  exclaimed, 

«  The  letter !” 

“What  letter?”  cried  Joe. 

“  That  I  was  carrying — I  had  it  in  my  hand.  My 
bracelet  too,”  she  said,  clasping  her  wrist.  “  I  have 
lost  them  both.” 


72 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


“  Do  you  mean  just  now  V ’  said  Joe. 

“  Either  I  dropped  them  then,  or  they  were  talsen 
from  me,”  answered  Dolly,  vainly  searching  her  pock¬ 
et  and  rustling  her  dress.  “They  are  gone,  both 
gone.  What  an  unhappy  girl  I  am ! ”  With  these 
words  poor  Dolly,  who  to  do  her  justice  was  quite  as 
sorry  for  the  loss  of  the  letter  as  for  her  bracelet,  fell 
a-crying  again,  and  bemoatfed  her  fate  most  mov- 
ingly. 

Joe  tried  to  comfort  her  with  the  assurance  that 
directly  he  had  housed  her  in  the  Maypole,  he  would 
return  to  the  spot  with  a  lantern  (for  it  was  now 
quite  dark)  and  make  strict  search  for  the  missing- 
articles,  which  there  was  great  probability  of  his  find¬ 
ing,  as  it  was  not  likely  that  any  body  had  passed 
that  way  since,  and  she  was  not  conscious  that  they 
had  been  forcibly  taken  from  her.  Dolly  thanked 
him  very  heartily  for  this  offer,  though  with  no  great 
hope  of  his  quest  being  successful ;  and  so  with  many 
lamentations  on  her  side,  and  many  hopeful  words 
on  his,  and  much  weakness  on  the  part  of  Dolly  and 
much  tender  supporting  on  the  part  of  Jqe,  they 
reached  the  Maypole  bar  at  last,  where  the  lock¬ 
smith  and  his  wife  and  old  John  were  yet  keeping 
high  festival. 

Mr.  Willet  received  the  intelligence  of  Dolly’s 
trouble  with  that  surprising  presence  of  mind  and 
readiness  of  speech  for  which  he  was  so  eminently 
distinguished  above  all  other  men.  Mrs.  Varden  ex¬ 
pressed  her  sympathy  for  her  daughter’s  distress  by 
scolding  her  roundly  for  being  so  late ;  and  the  hon¬ 
est  lock-smith  divided  himself  between  condoling 
with  and  kissing  Dolly,  and  shaking  hands  heartily 
with  Joe,  whom  he  could  not  sufficiently  praise  or 
thank. 

In  reference  to  this  latter  point,  old  John  wras  far 
from  agreeing  with  his  friend ;  for  besides  that  he 
by  no  means  approved  of  an  adventurous  spirit  in 
the  abstract,  it  occurred  to  him  that  if  his  sou  and  . 
heir  had  been  seriously  damaged  in  a  scuffle,  the  con¬ 
sequences  would  assuredly  have  been  expensive  and 
inconvenient,  and  might  perhaps  have  proved  detri¬ 
mental  to  the  Maypole  business.  Wherefore,  and  be¬ 
cause  he  looked  with  no  favorable  eye  upon  young 
girls,  but  rather  considered  that  they  and  the  whole 
female  sex  were  a  kind  of  nonsensical  mistake  on 
the  part  of  Nature,  he  took  occasion  to  retire  and 
shake  his  head  in  private  at  the  boiler;  inspired  by 
which  silent  oracle,  he  was  moved  to  give  Joe  vari¬ 
ous  stealthy  nudges  with  his  elbow,  as  a  parental  re¬ 
proof  and  gentle  admonition  to  mind  his  own  busi¬ 
ness  and  not  make  a  fool  of  himself. 

Joe,  however,  took  down  the  lantern  and  lighted 
it ;  and  arming  himself  with  a  stout  stick,  asked 
w  hether  Hugh  was  in  the  stable. 

“  He’s  lying  asleep  before  the  kitchen  fire,  sir,” 
said  Mr.  Willet.  “  What  do  you  waut  him  for  f” 

“  I  want  him  to  come  with  me  to  look  after  this 
bracelet  and  letter,”  answered  Joe.  “  Halloo,  there  ! 
Hugh!” 

Dolly  turned  pale  as  death,  and  felt  as  if  she  must 
faint  forthwith.  After  a  few  moments,  Hugh  came 
staggering  in,  stretching  himself  and  yawning  ac¬ 
cording  to  custom,  and  presenting  every  appearance 
of  having  been  roused  from  a  sound  nap. 

“  Here,  sleepy-head,”  said  Joe,  giving  him  the  lan¬ 


tern.  “  Carry  this,  and  bring  the  dog,  and  that  small 
cudgel  of  yours.  Aud  woe  betide  the  fellow  if  we 
come  upon  him.” 

“  What  fellow  ?”  growled  Hugh,  rubbing  his  eyes 
and  shaking  himself. 

“What  fellow?”  returned  Joe,  who  was  in  a  state 
of  great  valor  and  bustle ;  “  a  fellow  you  ought  to 
know  of,  and  be  more  alive  about.  It’s  well  for  the 
like  of  you,  lazy  giant  that  you  are,  to  be  suoring 
your  time  away  in  chimney-corners,  when  honest 
men’s  daughters  can’t  cross  even  our  quiet  meadows 
at  night -fall,  without  being  set  upon  by  foot-pads, 
aud  frightened  out  of  their  precious  lives.” 

“  They  never  rob  me,”  cried  Hugh,  wdth  a  laugh. 
“I  have  got  nothing  to  lose.  But  I’d  hs  lief  knock 
them  at  head  as  any  other  men.  How  many  are 
there  ?” 

“  Only  one,”  said  Dolly,  faintly,  for  every  body 
looked  at  her. 

“  And  what  was  he  like,  mistress  ?”  said  Hugh  with 
a  glance  at  young  Willet,  so  slight  and  momentary 
that  the  scowl  it  conveyed  was  lost  on  all  but  her. 
“  About  my  height  ?” 

“No,  not  so  tall,”  Dolly  replied,  scarce  knowing 
what  she  said. 

“  His  dress,”  said  Hugh,  looking  at  her  keenly, 
“  like — like  any  of  ours  now  ?  I  know  all  the  peo¬ 
ple  hereabouts,  and  maybe  could  give  a  guess  at  the 
man,  if  I  had  any  thing  to  guide  me.” 

Dolly  faltered  and  turned  paler  yet ;  then  answer¬ 
ed  that  he  was  wrapped  in  a  loose  coat  and  had  his 
face  hidden  by  a  handkerchief,  and  that  she  could 
give  no  other  description  of  him. 

“  You  wouldn’t  know  him  if  you  saw  him  theu,  be¬ 
like  ?”  said  Hugh,  with  a  malicious  grin. 

“  I  should  not,”  answered  Dolly,  bursting  into 
tears  again.  “  I  don’t  wish  to  see  him.  I  can’t  bear 
to  think  of  him.  I  can’t  talk  about  him  any  more. 
Don’t  go  to  look  for  these  things,  Mr.  Joe,  pray  don’t. 
I  entreat  you  not  to  go  with  that  man.” 

“  Not  to  go  with  me !”  cried  Hugh.  “  I’m  too 
rough  for  them  all.  They’re  all  afraid  of  me.  Why, 
bless  you  mistress,  I’ve  the  ten  derest  heart  alive. 
I  love  all  the  ladies,  ma’am,”  said  Hugh,  turning  to 
the  lock-smith’s  wife. 

Mrs.  Varden  opined  that  if  he  did,  he  ought  to  be 
ashamed  of  himself;  such  sentiments  being  more 
consistent  (so  she  argued)  with  a  benighted  Mussul¬ 
man  or  a  wild  Islander  than  with  a  staunch  Protest¬ 
ant.  Arguing  from  this  imperfect  state  of  his  mor¬ 
als,  Mrs.  Varden  further  opined  that  he  had  never 
studied  the  Manual.  Hugh  admitting  that  he  never 
had,  and  moreover  that  he  couldn’t  read,  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den  declared  with  much  severity,  that  he  ought  to 
be  even  more  ashamed  of  himself  than  before,  aud 
strongly  recommended  him  to  save  up  his  pocket- 
money  for  the  purchase  of  one,  aud  further  to  teach 
himself  the  contents  with  all  convenient  diligence. 
She  was  still  pursuing  this  train  of  discourse,  w  hen 
Hugh,  somevfflat  unceremoniously  and  irreverently, 
followed  his  young  master  out,  and  left  her  to  edify 
the  rest  of  the  company.  This  she  proceeded  to  do, 
and  finding  that  Mr.  Willet’s  eyes  were  fixed  upon 
her  with  an  appearance  of  deep  attention,  gradually 
addressed  the  vfflole  of  her  discourse  to  him,  whom 
she  entertained  with  a  moral  and  theological  lecture 


MRS.  VARDEN’S  ELASTIC  SPIRITS  AT  MEALS . 


73 


of  considerable  length,  in  the  conviction  that  great 
workings  were  taking  place  in  his  spirit.  The  sim¬ 
ple  truth  was,  however,  that  Mr.  Willet,  although  his 
eyes  were  wide  open  and  he  saw  a  woman  before  him 
whose  head  by  long  and  steady  looking  at  seemed  to 
grow  bigger  and  bigger  until  it  filled  the  whole  bar, 
was  to  all  other  intents  and  purposes  fast  asleep ; 
and  so  sat  leaning  back  in  his  chair  with  his  hands 
in  .his  pockets  until  his  son’s  return  caused  him  to 
wake  up  with  a  deep  sigh,  and  a  faint  impression 
that  he  had  been  dreaming  about  pickled  pork  and 
greens — a  vision  of  his  slumbers  which  was  no  doubt 
referable  to  the  circumstance  of  Mrs.  Yar den’s  hav¬ 
ing  frequently  pronounced  the  word  “  Grace  ”  with 
much  emphasis ;  which  word,  entering  the  portals 
of  Mr.  Willet’s  brain  as  they  stood  ajar,  and  coup¬ 
ling  itself  with  the  words  “before  meat,”  which 
were  there  ranging  about,  did  in  time  suggest  a  par¬ 
ticular  kind  of  meat  together  with  that  description 
of  vegetable  which  is  usually  its  companion. 

The  search  was  wholly  unsuccessful.  Joe  had 
groped  along  the  path  a  dozen  times,  and  among  the 
grass,  and  in  the  dry  ditch,  and  in  the  hedge,  but  all 
in  vain.  Dolly,  who  was  quite  inconsolable  for  her 
loss,  wrote  a  note  to  Miss  Haredale  giving  her  the 
same  account  of  it  that  she  had  given  at  the  May- 
pole,  which  Joe  undertook  to  deliver  as  soon  as  the 
faftnily  were  stirring  next  day.  That  done,  they  sat 
down  to  tea  in  the  bar,  where  there  was  an  uncom¬ 
mon  display  of  buttered  toast,  and — in  order  that 
they  might  not  grow  faint  for  want  of  sustenance, 
and  might  have  a  decent  halting-place  or  half-way 
house  between  dinner  and  supper  —  a  few  savory 
trifles  in  the  shape  of  great  rashers  of  broiled  ham, 
which  being  well  cured,  done  to  a  turn,  and  smok¬ 
ing  hot,  sent  forth  a  tempting  and  delicious  fra¬ 
grance. 

Mrs.  Yarden  was  seldom  very  Protestant  at  meals, 
unless  it  happened  that  they  were  underdone,  or 
overdone,  or  indeed  that  any  thing  occurred  to  put 
her  out  of  humor.  Her  spirits  rose  considerably  on 
beholding  these  goodly  preparations,  and  from  the 
nothingness  of  good,  works,  she  passed  to  the  some- 
thingness  of  ham  and  toast  with  great  cheerfulness. 
Nay,  under  the  influence  of  these  wholesome  stimu¬ 
lants,  she  sharply  reproved  her  daughter  for  being 
low  and  despondent  (which  she  considered  an  unac¬ 
ceptable  frame  of  mind),  and  remarked,  as  she  held 
her  own  plate  for  a  fresh  supply,  that  it  would  be 
well  for  Dolly,  who  pined  over  the  loss  of  a  toy  and 
a  sheet  of  paper,  if  she  would  reflect  upon  the  vol¬ 
untary  sacrifices  of  the  missionaries  in  foreign  parts 
who  lived  chiefly  on  salads. 

The  proceedings  of  such  a  day  occasion  various 
fluctuations  in  the  human  thermometer,  and  espe¬ 
cially  in  instruments  so  sensitively  and  delicately 
constructed  as  Mrs.  Varden.  Thus,  at  dinner  Mrs. 
Y.  stood  at  summer  heat;  genial,  smiling,  and  de¬ 
lightful.  After  dinner,  in  the  sunshine  of  the  wine, 
she  went  up  at  least  half  a  dozen  degrees,  and  was 
perfectly  enchanting.  As  its  effect  subsided,  she  fell 
rapidly,  went  to  sleep  for  an  hour  or  so  at  temperate, 
and  woke  at  something  below  freezing.  Now  she 
was  at  summer  heat  again,  in  the  shade;  and  when 
tea  was  over,  and  old  John,  producing  a  bottle  of 
cordial  from  one  of  the  oaken  cases,  insisted  on  her 


sipping  two  glasses  thereof  in  slow  succession,  she 
stood  steadily  at  ninety  for  one  hour  aud  a  quarter. 
Profiting  by  experience,  the  lock-smith  took  advan¬ 
tage  of  this  genial  weather  to  smoke  his  pipe  in  the 
porch,  and  in  consequence  of  this  prudent  manage¬ 
ment,  he  was  fully  prepared,  when  the  glass  went 
down  again,  to  start  homeward  directly. 

The  horse  was  accordingly  put  in,  and  the  chaise 
brought  round  to  the  door.  Joe,  who  would  on  no 
account  be  dissuaded  from  escorting  them  until  they 
had  passed  the  most  dreary  and  solitary  part  of  the 
road,  led  out  the  gray  mare  at  the  same  time ;  aud 
having  helped  Dolly  into  her  seat  (more  happiness!) 
sprang  gayly  into  the  saddle.  Then,  after  many 
good-nights,  and  admonitions  to  wrap  up,  and  glan¬ 
cing  of  lights,  and  handing  in  of  cloaks  and  shawls, 
the  chaise  rolled  away,  and  Joe  trotted  beside  it — 
on  Dolly’s  side,  no  doubt,  and  pretty  close  to  the 
wheel  too. 

■ - ♦ - 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

IT  was  a  fine  bright  night,  and  for  all  her  lowness 
of  spirits  Dolly  kept  looking  up  at  the  stars  in  a 
manner  so  bewitching  (and  she  knew  it!)  that  Joe 
was  clean  out  of  his  senses,  and  plainly  showed  that 
if  ever  a  man  were — not  to  say  over  head  and  ears, 
but  over  the  Monument  and  the  top  of  Saint  Paul’s 
in  love,  that  man  was  himself.  The  road  was  a  very 
good  one ;  not  at  all  a  jolting  road,  or  an  uneven 
one  ;  and  yet  Dolly  held  the  side  of  the  chaise  with 
one  little  hand,  all  the  way.  If  there  had  beeh  an 
executioner  behind  him  with  an  uplifted  axe  ready 
to  chop  off  his  head  if  he  touched  that  hand,  Joe 
couldn’t  have  helped  doing  it.  From  putting  his 
own  hand  upon  it  as  if  by  chance,  and  taking  it 
away  again  after  a  minute  or  so,  he  got  to  riding 
along  without  taking  it  off  at  all ;  as  if  he,  the  es- 
'  cort,  were  bound  to  do  that  as  an  important  part  of 
his  duty,  and  had  come  out  for  the  purpose.  The 
most  curious  circumstance  about  this  little  incident 
was,  that  Dolly  didn’t  seem  to  know  of  it.  She 
looked  so  innocent  and  unconscious  when  she  turn¬ 
ed  her  eyes  on  Joe,  that  it  was  quite  provoking. 

She  talked  though ;  talked  about  her  fright,  and 
about  Joe’s  coming  up  to  rescue  her,  aud  about  her 
gratitude,  and  about  her  fear  that  she  might  not 
have  thanked  him  enough,  and  about  their  always 
being  friends  from  that  time  forth — and  about  all 
that  sort  of  thing.  And  when  Joe  said,  not  friends 
he  hoped,  Dolly  was  quite  surprised,  and  said  not 
enemies  she  hoped;  and  when  Joe  said,  couldn’t 
they  be  something  much  better  than  either,  Dolly 
all  of  a  sudden  found  out  a  star  which  was  brighter 
than  all  the  other  stars,  and  begged  to  call  his  at¬ 
tention  to  the  same,  and  was  ten  thousand  times 
more  innocent  and  unconscious  than  ever. 

In  this  manner  they  traveled  along,  talking  very 
little  above  a  whisper,  and  wished  the  road  could 
be  stretched  out  to  some  dozen  times  its  natural 
length — at  least  that  was  Joe’s  desire — when,  as 
they  were  getting  clear  of  the  forest  and  emerging 
on  the  more  frequented  road,  they  heard  behind 
them  the  sound  of  a  horse’s  feet  at  a  round  trot, 
which  growing  rapidly  louder  as  it  drew  nearer, 


74 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


elicited  a  scream  from  Mrs.  Varden,  and  the  cry  “  a 
friend !”  from  the  rider,  who  now  came  panting  up, 
and  checked  his  horse  beside  them. 

“  This  man  again !”  cried  Dolly,  shuddering. 

“  Hugh !”  said  Joe.  “  What  errand  are  you  upon  ?” 

“I  come  to  ride  hack  with  you,”  he  answered, 
glancing  covertly  at  the  lock -smith’s  daughter. 
“He  sent  me.” 

“My  father!”  said  poor  Joe;  adding  under  his 
breath,  with  a  very  unhlial  apostrophe,  “Will  he 
never  think  me  man  enough  to  take  care  of  my¬ 
self!” 

“Ay!”  returned  Hugh  to  the  first  part  of  the  iu- 
quiry.  “The  roads  are  not  safe  just  now,”  he  says, 
“  and  you’d  better  have  a  companion.” 

“Ride  on,  then,”  said  Joe.  “I’m  not  going  to 
turn  yet.” 

Hugh  complied,  and  they  went  on  again.  It  was 
his  whim  or  humor  to  ride  immediately  before  the 
chaise,  and  from  this  position  he  constantly  turned 
his  head,  and  looked  back.  Dolly  felt  that  he  look¬ 
ed  at  her,  but  she  averted  her  eyes  and  feared  to 
raise  them  once,  so  great  was  the  dread  with  which 
he  had  inspired  her. 

This  interruption,  and  the  consequent  wakeful¬ 
ness  of  Mrs.  Varden,  who  had  been  nodding  in  her 
sleep  up  to  this  point,  except  for  a  minute  or  two  at 
a  time,  when  she  roused  herself  to  scold  the  lock¬ 
smith  for  audaciously  taking  hold  of  her  to  prevent 
her  nodding  herself  out  of  the  chaise,  put  a  restraint 
upon  the  whispered  conversation,  and  made  it  diffi¬ 
cult  of  resumption.  Indeed,  before  they  had  gone 
another  mile,  Gabriel  stopped  at  his  wife’s  desire, 
and  that  good  lady  protested  she  would  not  hear  of 
Joe’s  going  a  step  further  on  any  account  whatever. 
It  was  in  vain  for  Joe  to  protest,  on  the  other  hand, 
that  he  was  by  no  means  tired,  and  would  turn  back 
presently,  and  would  see  them  safely  past  such  a 
point,  and  so  forth.  Mrs.  Varden  was  obdurate,  and 
being  so  was  not  to  be  overcome  by  mortal  agency. 

“  Good-night — if  I  must  say  it,”  said  Joe,  sorrow¬ 
fully. 

“  Good-night,”  said  Dolly.  She  would  have  add¬ 
ed,  “Take  care  of  that  man,  and  pray  don’t  trust 
him,”  but  he  had  turned  his  horse’s  head,  and  was 
standing  close  to  them.  She  had  therefore  nothing 
for  it  but  to  suffer  Joe-  to  give  her  hand  a  gentle 
squeeze,  and  when  the  chaise  had  gone  on  for  some 
distance,  to  look  back  and  wave  it,  as' he  still  linger¬ 
ed  on  the  spot  where  they  had  parted,  with  the  tall, 
dark  figure  of  Hugh  beside  him. 

What  she  thought  about,  going  home ;  and  wheth¬ 
er  the  coach-maker  held  as  favorable  a  place  in  her 
meditations  as  he  had  occupied  in  the  morning,  is 
unknown.  They  reached  home  at  last— at  last,  for 
it  was  a  long  way,  made  none  the  shorter  by  Mrs. 
Varden’s  grumbling.  Miggs  hearing  the  sound  of 
wheels  was  at  the  door  immediately. 

“Here  they  are,  Simmun!  Here  they  are!”  cried 
Miggs,  clapping  her  hands,  and  issuing  forth  to  help 
her  mistress  to  alight.  “Bring  a  chair,  Simmun. 
Now,  gn’t  you  the  better  for  it,  mim  ?  Don’t  you 
feel  more  yourself  than  you  would  have  done  if 
you’d  have  stopped  at  home  ?  Oh,  gracious !  how 
cold  you  are !  Goodness  me,  sir,  she’s  a  perfect  heap 
of  ice.” 


“  I  can’t  help  it,  my  good  girl.  You  had  better 
take  her  in  to  the  fire,”  said  the  lock-smith. 

“Master  sounds  unfeeliug,  mim,”  said  Miggs,  in  a 
tone  of  commiseration,  “  but  such  is  not  his  inten¬ 
tions,  I’m  sure.  After  what  he  has  seen  of  you  this 
day,  I  never  will  believe  but  that  he  has  a  deal  more 
affection  in  his  heart  than  to  speak  unkind.  Come 
in  and  sit  yourself  down  by  the  fire ;  there’s  a  good 
dear — do.” 

Mrs.  Varden  complied.  The  lock-smith  followed 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  Mr.  Tappertit- 
trundled  off  with  the  chaise  to  a  neighboring  sta¬ 
ble. 

“Martha,  my  dear,”  said  the  lock-smith, when  they 
reached  the  parlor,  “  if  you’ll  look  to  Dolly  yourself, 
or  let  somebody  else  do  it,  perhaps  it  will  be  only 
kind  and  reasonable.  She  has  been  frightened,  you 
know,  and  is  not  at  all  well  to-night.” 

In  fact,  Dolly  had  thrown  herself  upon  the  sofa, 
quite  regardless  of  all  the  little  finery  of  which  she 
had  been  so  proud  in  the  morning,  and  with  her  face 
buried  in  her  hands  was  crying  very  much. 

At  first  sight  of  this  phenomenon  (for  Dolly  was 
by  no  means  accustomed  to  displays  of  this  sort, 
rather  learning  from  her  mother’s  example  to  avoid 
them  as  much  as  possible)  Mrs.  Varden  expressed 
her  belief  that  never  was  any  woman  so  beset  as 
she ;  that  her  life  was  a  continued  sceue  of  tritft ; 
that  whenever  she  was  disposed  to  be  well  and 
cheerful,  so  sure  were  the  people  around  her  to 
throw,  by  some  means  or  other,  a  damp  upon  her 
spirits  ;  and  that,  as  she  had  enjoyed  herself  that 
day,  and  Heaven  knew  it  was  very  seldom  she  did 
enjoy  herself,  so  she  was  now  to  pay  the  penalty. 
To  all  such  propositions  Miggs  assented  freely. 
Poor  Dolly,  however,  grew  none  the  better  for  these 
restoratives,  but  rather  worse,  indeed;  and  seeing 
that  she  was  really  ill,  both  Mrs.  Varden  and  Miggs 
were  moved  to  compassion,  and  tended  her  in  ear¬ 
nest. 

But  even  then,  their  very  kindness  shaped  itself 
into  their  usual  course  of  policy,  and  though  Dolly 
was  in  a  swoon,  it  was  rendered  clear  to  the  meanest 
capacity,  that  Mrs.  Varden  was  the  sufferer.  Thus 
when  Dolly  began  to  get  a  little  better,  and  passed 
into  that  stage  in  which  matrons  hold  that  remon¬ 
strance  and  argument  may  be  successfully  applied, 
her  mother  represented  to  her,  with  tears  in  her 
eyes,  that  if  she  had  been  flurried  and  worried  that 
day,  she  must  remember  it  was  the  common  lot  of  hu¬ 
manity,  and  in  especial  of  womankind,  who  through 
the  whole  of  their  existence  must  expect  no  less, 
and  were  bound  to  make  up  their  minds  to  meek 
endurance  and  patient  resignation.  Mrs.  Varden  en¬ 
treated  her  to  remember  that  one  of  these  days  she 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  to  do  violence  to  her 
feelings  so  far  as  to  be  married ;  and  that  marriage, 
as  she  might  see  every  day  of  her  life  (and  truly  she 
did)  was  a  state  requiring  great  fortitude  and  for¬ 
bearance.  She  represented  to  her  in  lively  colors, 
that  if  she  (Mrs.  V.)  had  not,  in  steering  her  course 
through  this  vale  of  tears,  been  supported  by  a 
strong  principle  of  duty  which  alone  upheld  and 
prevented  her  from  drooping,  she  must  have  been  in 
her  grave  many  years  ago ;  in  which  case  she  desired 
to  know  what  would  have  become  of  that  errant 


GOLDEN  LION  COURT. 


75 


spirit  (meaning  the  lock-smith),  of  whose  eye  she 
was  the  very  apple,  and  in  whose  path  she  was,  as  it 
were,  a  shining  light  and  guiding  star  ? 

Miss  Miggs  also  put  in  her  word  to  the  same  effect. 
She  said  that  indeed  and  indeed  Miss  Dolly  might 
take  pattern  by  her  blessed  mother,  who,  she  always 
had  said,  and  always  would  say,  though  she  were  to 
be  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered  for  it  next  minute, 


were  now  the  happiest  and  affection atest  couple 
upon  earth ;  as  could  be  proved  any  day  on  appli¬ 
cation  at  Golden  Lion  Court,  number  tweuty-sivin, 
second  bell-handle  on  the  right-hand  door-post.  Af¬ 
ter  glancing  at  herself  as  a  comparatively  worthless 
vessel,  but  still  as  one  of  some  desert,  she  besought 
her  to  bear  in  mind  that  her  aforesaid  dear  and  only 
mother  was  of  a  weakly  constitution  and  excitable 


“huff  ok  no  huff,”  said  me.  tappektit,  detaining  hee  by  the  wrist.  “what  do  you  mean,  jezebel?  what  were  you  going 

TO  SAY  ?  ANSWER  ME  !” 


was  the  mildest,  amiablest,  forgivingest  -  spirited, 
longest- sufferingest  female  as  ever  she  could  have 
believed ;  the  mere  narration  of  whose  excellencies 
had  worked  such  a  wholesome  change  in  the  mind 
of  her  own  sister-in-law,  that  whereas,  before,  she 
and  her  husband  lived  like  cat  and  dog,  and  were  in 
the  habit  of  exchanging  brass  candlesticks,  pot-lids, 
flat-irons,  and  other  such  strong  resentments,  they 


temperament,  who  had  constantly  to  sustain  afflic¬ 
tions  in  domestic  life,  compared  with  which  thieves 
and  robbers  were  as  nothing,  and  yet  never  sunk 
down  or  gave  way  to  despair  or  wrath,  but,  in  prize¬ 
fighting  phraseology,  always  came  up  to  time  with  a 
cheerful  countenance,  and  went  in  to  win  as  if  noth¬ 
ing  had  happened.  When  Miggs  finished  her  solo, 
her  mistress  struck  in  agqin,  and  the  two  together 


76 


BABXABY  BUDGE. 


performed  a  duet  to  the  same  purpose ;  the  burden 
being,  that  Mrs.  Varden  was  persecuted  perfection, 
and  Mr.  Varden,  as  the  representative  of  mankind  in 
that  apartment,  a  creature  of  vicious  and  brutal  hab¬ 
its,  utterly  insensible  to  the  blessings  he  enjoyed. 
Of  so  refined  a  character,  indeed,  was  their  talent  of 
assault  under  the  mask  of  sympathy,  that  when  Dol¬ 
ly,  recovering,  embraced  her  father  tenderly,  as  in 
vindication  of  his  goodness,  Mrs.  Varden  expressed 
her  solemn  hope  that  this  would  be  a  lesson  to  him 
for  the  remainder  of  his  life,  and  that  he  would  do 
some  little  justice  to  a  woman’s  nature  ever  after¬ 
ward — in  which  aspiration  Miss  Miggs,  by  divers 
sniffs  and  coughs,  more  significant  than  the  longest 
oration,  expressed  her  entire  concurrence. 

But  the  great  joy  of  Miggs’s  heart  was,  that  she 
not  only  picked  up  a  full  account  of  what  had  hap¬ 
pened,  but  had  the  exquisite  delight  of  conveying  it 
to  Mr.  Tappertit  for  his  jealousy  and  torture.  For 
that  gentleman,  on  account  of  Dolly’s  indisposition, 
had  been  requested  to  take  his  supper  in  the  work¬ 
shop,  and  it  was  conveyed  thither  by  Miss  Miggs’s 
own  fair  hands. 

“Oh,  Simmun!”  said  the  young  lady,  “such  go¬ 
ings-on  to-day  !  Oh,  gracious  me,  Simmun !” 

Mr.  Tappertit,  who  was  not  in  the  best  of  humors, 
and  who  disliked  Miss  Miggs  more  when  she  laid  her 
hand  on  her  heart  and  panted  for  breath  than  at  any 
other  time,  as  her  deficiency  of  outline  was  most  ap¬ 
parent  under  such  circumstances,  eyed  her  over  in 
his  loftiest  style,  and  deigned  to  express  no  curiosity 
whatever. 

“  I  never  heard  the  like,  nor  nobody  else,”  pursued 
Miggs.  “The  idea  of  interfering  with  her.  What 
people  can  see  in  her  to  make  it  worth  their  while 
to  do  so,  that’s  the  joke — lie,  he,  he !” 

Finding  there  was  a  lady  in  the  case,  Mr.  Tapper¬ 
tit  haughtily  requested  his  fair  friend  to  be  more  ex¬ 
plicit,  and  demanded  to  know  what  she  meant  by 
“her.” 

“  Why,  that  Dolly,”  said  Miggs,  with  an  extreme¬ 
ly  sharp  emphasis  on  the  name.  “  But,  oh  upon  my 
word  and  honor,  young  Joseph  Willet  is  a  brave  one ; 
and  he  do  deserve  her,  that  he  do.” 

“Woman!”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  jumping  off  the 
counter  on  which  he  was  seated ;  “  beware !” 

“  My  stars,  Simmun !”  cried  Miggs,  in  affected  as¬ 
tonishment.  “You  frighten  me  to  death!  What’s 
the  matter  ?” 

“  There  are  strings,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  flourishing 
his  bread-and-clieese  knife  in  the  air,  “in  the  human 
heart  that  had  better  not  be  wibrated.  That’s  what’s 
the  matter.” 

“  Oh,  very  well — if  you’re  in  a  huff',”  cried  Miggs, 
turning  away. 

“  Huff*  or  no  huff,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  detaining 
her  by  the  wrist.  “What  do  you  mean,  Jezebel  ? 
What  were  you  going  to  say?  Answer  me!” 

Notwithstanding  this  uncivil  exhortation,  Miggs 
gladly  did  as  she  was  required ;  and  told  him  how 
that  their  young  mistress,  being  alone  in  the  mead¬ 
ows  after  dark,  had  been  attacked  by  three  or  four 
tall  men,  who  would  have  certainly  borne  her  away 
and  perhaps  murdered  her,  but  for  the  timely  arrival 
of  Joseph  Willet,  who  with  his  own  single  hand  put 
them  all  to  flight,  and  rescued  her;  to  the  lasting 


admiration  of  his  fellow-creatures  generally,  aud  to 
the  eternal  love  and  gratitude  of  Dolly  Vardeu. 

“Very  good,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  fetching  a  long 
breath  when  the  tale  was  told,  and  rubbing  his  hair 
up  till  it  stood  stiff  aud  straight  on  end  all  over  his 
head.  “  His  days  are  numbered.” 

“  Oh,  Simmun !” 

“I  tell  you,”  said  the  ’prentice,  “his  days  are 
numbered.  Leave  me.  Get  along  with  you.” 

Miggs  departed  at  his  bidding,  but  less  because 
of  his  bidding  than  because  she  desired  to  chuckle 
iu  secret.  When  she  had  given  vent  to  her  satis¬ 
faction,  she  returned  to  the  parlor ;  where  the  lock¬ 
smith,  stimulated  by  quietness  and  Toby,  had  be¬ 
come  talkative,  and  was  disposed  to  take  a  cheerful 
review  of  the  occurrences  of  the  day.  But  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den,  whose  practical  religion  (as  is  not  uncommon) 
was  usually  of  the  retrospective  order,  cut  him  short 
by  declaiming  on  the  sinfulness  of  such  junketings, 
and  holding  that  it  was  high  time  to  go  to  bed.  To 
bed  therefore  she  withdrew,  with  an  aspect  as  grim 
and  gloomy  as  that  of  the  Maypole’s  own .  state 
couch;  aud  to  bed  the  rest  of  the  establishment 
soon  afterward  repaired. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

TWILIGHT  had  given  place  to  night  some  hours, 
and  it  was  high  noon  in  those  quarters  of  the 
town  in  which  “  the  world  ”  condescended  to  dwell 
— the  world  being  then,  as  now,  of  very  limited  di¬ 
mensions  and  easily  lodged — when  Mr.  Chester  re¬ 
clined  upon  a  sofa  in  his  dressing-room  in  the  Tem¬ 
ple,  entertaining  himself  with  a  book. 

He  was  dressing,  as  it  seemed,  by  easy  stages,  and 
having  performed  half  the  journey  was  taking  a  long 
rest.  Completely  attired  as  to  his  legs  and  feet  in 
the  trimmest  fashion  of  the  day,  he  had  yet  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  his  toilet  to  perform.  The  coat  was 
stretched,  like  a  refined  scarecrow,  on  its  separate 
horse ;  the  waistcoat  was  displayed  to  the  best  ad¬ 
vantage;  the  various  ornamental  articles  of  dress 
were  severally  set  out  in  most  alluring  order ;  and 
yet  he  lay  dangling  his  legs  between  the  sofa  and 
the  ground,  as  intent  upon  his  book  as  if  there  were 
nothing  but  bed  before  him. 

“Upon  my  honor,”  he  said,  at  length  raising  his 
eyes  to  the  ceiling  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
reflecting  seriously  on  what  he  had  read  ;  “  upon  my 
honor,  the  most  masterly  composition,  the  most  deli¬ 
cate  thoughts,  the  finest  code  of  morality,  aud  the 
most  gentlemanly  sentiments  in  the  universe!  Ah! 
Ned,  Ned,  if  you  would  but  form  your  mind  by  such 
precepts,  we  should  have  but  one  common  feeling  on 
every  subject  that  could  possibly  arise  between  us!” 

This  apostrophe  was  addressed,  like  the  rest  of  hil 
remarks,  to  empty  air ;  for  Edward  was  not  present, 
and  the  father  was  quite  alone. 

“  My  Lord  Chesterfield,”  he  said,  pressing  his  hand 
tenderly  upon  the  book  as  he  laid  it  down,  “  if  I 
could  but  have  profited  by  your  genius  soon  enough 
to  have  formed  my  son  on  the  model  you  have  left 
to  all  wise  fathers,  both  he  aud  I  would  have  been 
rich  men.  Shakspeare  was  undoubtedly  very  fine  in 


MB.  CHESTER  AND  HUGH. 


77 


liis  way ;  Milton  good,  though  prosy ;  Lord  Bacon 
deep,  and  decidedly  knowing ;  hut  the  writer  who 
should  he  his  country’s  pride,  is  my  Lord  Chester¬ 
field.” 

He  became  thoughtful  again,  and  the  tooth-pick 
was  in  requisition. 

« I  thought  I  was  tolerably  accomplished  as  a  man 
of  the  world,”  he  continued ;  “  I  flattered  myself  that 
I  was  pretty  well  versed  in  all  those  little  arts  and 
graces  which  distinguish  men  of  the  W'Oild  from 
boors  and  peasants,  and  separate  their  character 
from  those  intensely  vulgar  sentiments  which  are 
called  the  national  character.  Apart  from  any  nat¬ 
ural  prepossession  in  my  own  favor,  I  believed  I  was. 
Still,  in  every  page  of  this  enlightened  writer,  I  find 
some  captivating  hypocrisy  which  has  never  occur¬ 
red  to  me  before,  or  some  superlative  piece  of  selfish¬ 
ness  to  which  I  was  utterly  a  stranger.  I  should 
quite  blush  for  myself  before  this  stupendous  crea¬ 
ture,  if,  remembering  his  precepts,  one  might  blush 
at  any  thiug.  An  amazing  man!  a  nobleman  indeed! 
any  King  or  Queen  may  make  a  Lord,  but  only  the 
Devil  himself— and  the  Graces— can  make  a  Chester¬ 
field.”  . 

Men  who  are  thoroughly  false  and  hollow,  seldom 
try  to  hide  those  vices  from  themselves ;  and  yet  in 
the  very  act  of  avowing  them,  they  lay  claim  to  the 
virtues  they  feign  most  to  despise.  “  For,”  say  they, 

« this  is  honesty,  this  is  truth.  All  mankind  are  like 
us,  but  they  have  not  the  candor  to  avow  it.”  The 
more  they  affect  to  deny  the  existence  of  any  sinceri¬ 
ty  in  the  world,  the  more  they  would  be  thought  to 
possess  it  in  its  boldest  shape;  and  this  is  an  uncon¬ 
scious  compliment  to  Truth  on  the  part  of  these 
philosophers,  which  will  turn  the  laugh  against  them 
to  the  Day  of  Judgment. 

Mr.  Chester,  having  extolled  his  favorite  author, 
as  above  recited,  took  up  the  book  again  in  the  ex¬ 
cess  of  his  admiration  and  was  composing  himself 
for  a  further  perusal  of  its  sublime  morality,  when 
he  was  disturbed  by  a  noise  at  the  outer  door ;  occa¬ 
sioned  as  it  seemed  by  the  endeavors  of  his  servant 
to  obstruct  the  entrance  of  some  unwelcome  visitor. 

“  A  late  hour  for  an  importunate  creditor,”  he  said, 
raising  his  eyebrows  with  as  indolent  an  expression 
of  wonder  as  if  the  noise  were  in  the  street,  and  one 
with  which  he  had  not  the  smallest  possible  concern. 
“  Much  after  their  accustomed  time.  The  usual  pre¬ 
tense,  I  suppose.  No  doubt  a  heavy  payment  to  make 
up  to-morrow.  Poor  fellow,  he  loses  time,  and  time 
is  money,  as  the  good  proverb  says  I  never  found  it 
out,  though.  Well.  What  now  ?  You  know  I  am 
not  at  home.” 

“  A  man,  sir,”  replied  the  servant,  who  was  to  the 
full  as  cool  and  negligent  in  his  way  as  his  master, 
“has  brought  home  the  riding-whip  you  lost  the 
other  day.  I  told  him  you  were  out,  but  he  said  he 
was  to  wait  while  I  brought  it  in,  and  wouldn’t  go 
till  I  did.” 

“He  was  quite  right,”  returned  his  master,  “and 
you’re  a  blockhead,  possessing  no  judgment  or  dis¬ 
cretion  whatever.  Tell  him  to  come  iu,  and  see  that 
he  rubs  his  shoes  for  exactly  five  minutes  first.” 

The  man  laid  the  whip  on  a  chair,  and  withdrew. 
The  master,  who  had  only  heard  his  foot  upon  the 
ground,  and  had  not  taken  the  trouble  to  turn  lound 


and  look  at  him,  shut  his  book,  and  pursued  the  train 
of  ideas  his  entrance  had  disturbed. 

“  If  time  were  money,”  he  said,  handling  his  snuff¬ 
box,  “  I  would  compound  with  my  creditors,  and  give 
them — let  me  see — how  much  a  day  ?  There’s  my 
nap  after  dinner — an  hour — they’re  extremely  wel¬ 
come  to  that,  and  to  make  the  most  of  it.  In  the 
morning,  between  my  breakfast  and  the  paper,  I 
could  spare  them  another  hour ;  in  the  evening  be¬ 
fore  dinner  say  another.  Three  hours  a  day.  They 
might  pay  themselves  in  calls,  with  interest,  in 
twelve  months.  I  think  I  shall  propose  it  to  them. 
Ah,  my  centaur,  are  yon  there  ?” 

“  Here  I  am,”  replied  Hugh,  striding  in,  followed 
by  a  dog,  as  rough  and  sullen  as  himself;  “  and  trou¬ 
ble  enough  I’ve  had  to  get  here.  What  do  you  ask 
me  to  come  for,  and  keep  me  out  when  I  do  come  V 

“My  good  fellow,”  returned  the  other,  raising  his 
head  a  little  from  the  cushion  and  carelessly  survey¬ 
ing  him  from  top  to  toe,  “  I  am  delighted  to  see  you, 
and  to  have,  in  your  being  here,  the  very  best  proot 
that  you  are  not  kept  out.  How  are  yon?” 

“  I’m  well  enough,”  said  Hugh,  impatiently. 

“  You  look  a  perfect  marvel  of  health.  Sit  down.” 

“  I’d  rather  stand,”  said  Hugh. 

“Please  yourself,  my  good  fellow,”  returned  Mr. 
Chester,  rising,  slowly  pulling  off  the  loose  robe  he 
wore,  and  sitting  down  before  the  dressing-glass. 
“Please  yourself  by  all  means.” 

Having  said  this  in  the  politest  and  blandest  tone 
possible,  he  went  on  dressing,  and  took  no  further 
notice  of  his  guest,  who  stood  in  the  same  spot  as 
uncertain  what  to  do  next,  eying  him  sulkily  from 
time  to  time. 

“Are  you  going  to  speak  to  me,  master ?”  he  said, 
after  a  long  silence. 

“  My  worthy  creature,”  returned  Mr.  Chester,  “  you 
are  a  little  ruffled  and  out  of  humor.  I’ll  wait  till 
you’re  quite  yourself  again.  I  am  in  no  hurry.” 

This  behavior  had  its  intended  effect.  It  hum¬ 
bled  and  abashed  the  man,  and  made  him  still  more 
irresolute  and  uncertain.  Hard  words  he  could  have 
returned,  violence  he  would  have  repaid  with  inter¬ 
est  ;  but  this  cool,  complacent,  contemptuous,  self- 
possessed  reception,  caused  him  to  feel  his  inferiority 
more  completely  than  the  most  elaborate  arguments. 
Every  thing  contributed  to  this  effect.  His  own 
rough  speech,  contrasted  with  the  soft,  persuasive 
accents  of  the  other ;  his  rude  bearing,  and  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter’s  polished  manner ;  the  disorder  and  negligence 
of  his  ragged  dress,  and  the  elegant  attire  he  saw 
before  him ;  with  all  the  unaccustomed  luxuries  and 
comforts  of  the  room,  and  the  silence  that  gave  him 
leisure  to  observe  these  things,  and  feel  how  ill  at 
ease  they  made  him ;  all  these  influences,  which  have 
too  often  some  effect  on  tutored  minds  and  become 
of  almost  resistless  power  when  brought  to  bear  on 
such  a  mind  as  his,  quelled  Hugh  completely.  He 
moved  by  little  and  little  nearer  to  Mr.  Chester’s 
chair,  and  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  reflec¬ 
tion  of  his  face  in  the  glass,  as  if  seeking  for  some 
encouragement  iu  its  expression,  said  at  length,  writli 
a  rough  attempt  at  conciliation, 

Avc  you  going  to  speak  to  me,  master,  or  am  I 

to  go  away?” 

“  Speak  you,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  speak  you,  good 


78 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


fellow.  I  have  spoken,  have  I  not  ?  I  am  waiting 
for  you.” 

“  Why,look’ee,  sir/’  returned  Hugh,  with  increased 
embarrassment,  “  am  I  the  man  that  you  privately 
left  your  whip  with  before  you  rode  away  from  the 
Maypole,  and  told  to  bring  it  back  whenever  he 
might  want  to  see  you  on  a  certain  subject  ?” 

“  No  doubt  the  same,  or  you  have  a  twin  brother,” 
said  Mr.  Chester,  glancing  at  the  reflection  of  his 
anxious  face  ;  “which  is  not  probable,  I  should  say.” 

“Then  I  have  come,  sir,”  said  Hugh,  “and  I  have 
brought  it  back,  and  something  else  along  with  it. 
A  letter,  sir,  it  is,  that  I  took  from  the  person  who 
had  charge  of  it.”  As  he  spoke,  he  laid  upon  the 
dressing-table  Dolly’s  lost  epistle.  The  very  letter 
that  had  cost  her  so  much  trouble. 

“  Did  you  obtain  this  by  force,  my  good  fellow  ?” 
said  Mr.  Chester,  casting  his  eye  upon  it  without  the 
least  perceptible  surprise  or  pleasure. 

“Not  quite,”  said  Hugh.  “Partly.” 

“Who  was  the  messenger  from  whom  you  took 
it?” 

“A  woman.  One  Yarden’s  daughter.” 

“  Oh  indeed !”  said  Mr.  Chester,  gayly.  “  What 
else  did  you  take  from  her?” 

“What  else?” 

“  Yes,”  said  the  other,  in  a  drawling  manner,  for 
he  was  fixing  a  very  small  patch  of  sticking-plaster 
on  a  very  small  pimple  near  the  corner  of  his  mouth. 
“  What  else  ?” 

“  Well — a  kiss,”  replied  Hugh,  after  some  hesita¬ 
tion. 

“And  what  else  ?” 

“  Nothing.” 

“  I  think,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  in  the  same  easy  tone, 
and  smiling  twice  or  thrice  to  try  if  the  patch  ad¬ 
hered — “  I  think  there  was  something  else.  I  have 
heard  a  trifle  of  jewelry  spoken  of — a  mere  trifle — a 
thing  of  such  little  value,  indeed,  that  you  may  have 
forgotten  it.  Do  you  remember  any  thing  of  the 
kind — such  as  a  bracelet  now,  for  instance  ?” 

Hugh,  with  a  muttered  oath,  thrust  his  hand  into 
his  breast,  and  drawing  the  bracelet  forth,  wrapped 
in  a  scrap  of  hay,  was  about  to  lay  it  on  the  table 
likewise,  when  his  patron  stopped  his  hand  and  bade 
him  put  it  up  again. 

“You  took  that  for  yourself, my  excellent  friend,” 
he  said,  “and  may  keep  it.  I  am  neither  a  thief, 
nor  a  receiver.  Don’t  show  it  to  me.  You  had  bet¬ 
ter  hide  it  again,  and  lose  no  time.  Don’t  let  me 
see  where  you  put  it  either,”  he  added,  turning  away 
his  head. 

“You’re  not  a  receiver!”  said  Hugh,  bluntly,  de¬ 
spite  the  increasing  awe  in  which  he  held  him. 
“  What  do  you  call  that,  master  ?”  striking  the  letter 
with  his  heavy  hand. 

“  I  call  that  quite  another  thing,”  said  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter,  coolly.  “  I  shall  prove  it  presently,  as  you  will 
see.  You  are  thirsty,  I  suppose  ?” 

Hugh  drew  his  sleeve  across  his  lips,  and  gruffly 
answered  yes. 

“  Step  to  that  closet  and  bring  me  a  bottle  you 
will  see  there,  and  a  glass.” 

He  obeyed.  His  patron  followed  him  with  his 
eyes,  and  when  his  back  was  turned,  smiled  as  he 
had  never  done  when  he  stood  beside  the  mirror. 


On  his  retuyn  he  filled  the  glass,  and  bade  him  drink. 
That  dram  dispatched,  he  poured  him  out  another, 
and  another. 

“How  many  can  you  bear?”  he  said,  filling  the 
glass  again. 

“As  many  as  you  like  to  give  me.  Pour  on.  Fill 
high.  A  bumper  with  a  bead  in  the  middle !  Give 
me  enough  of  this,”  he  added,  as  he  tossed  it  down 
his  hairy  throat,  “  and  I’ll  do  murder  if  you  ask 
me !” 

“As  I  don’t  mean  to  ask  you,  and  you  might  pos¬ 
sibly  do  it  without  being  invited  if  you  went  on 
much  further,”  said  Mr.  Chester  with  great  compos¬ 
ure,  “  we  will  stop,  if  agreeable  to  you  my  good 
friend,  at  the  next  glass.  You  were  drinking  before 
you  came  here.” 

“  I  always  am  when  I  can  get  it,”  cried  Hugh, 
boisterously,  waving  the  empty  glass  above  his  head, 
and  throwing  himself  into  a  rude  dancing  attitude. 
“  I  always  am.  Why  not  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha  !  What’s 
so  good  to  me  as  this  ?  What  ever  has  been  ?  What 
else  has  kept  away  the  cold  on  bitter  nights,  and 
driven  hunger  off  in  starving  times  ?  What  else  has 
given  me  the  strength  and  courage  of  a  man,  when 
’men  would  have  left  me  to  die,  a  puny  child?  I 
should  never  have  had  a  man’s  heart  but  for  this. 
I  should  have  died  in  a  ditch.  Where’s  he  who 
when  I  was  a  weak  and  sickly  wretch,  with  trem¬ 
bling  legs  and  fading  sight,  bade  me  cheer  up,  as 
this  did  ?  I  never  knew  him ;  not  I.  I  drink  to 
the  drink,  master.  Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

“You  are  an  exceedingly  cheerful  young  man,” 
said  Mr.  Chester,  putting  on  his  cravat  with  great 
deliberation,  and  slightly  moving  his  head  from  side 
to  side  to  settle  his  chin  in  its  proper  place.  “  Quite, 
a  boon  companion.” 

“  Do  you  see  this  hand,  master,”  said  Hugh,  “  and 
this  arm?”  baring  the  brawny  limb  to  the  elbow. 
“  It  was  once  mere  skin  and  bone,  and  would  have 
been  dust  in  some  poor  church-yard  by  this  time, 
but  for  the  drink.” 

“You  may  cover  it,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “it’s  suffi¬ 
ciently  real  in  your  sleeve.” 

“I  should  never  have  been  spirited  up  to  take  a 
kiss  from  the  proud  little  beauty,  master,  but  for  the 
drink,”  cried  Hugh.  “Ha,  ha,  ha!  It  was  a  good 
one.  As  sweet  as  honeysuckle,  I  warrant  you.  I 
thank  the  drink  for  it.  I’ll  drink  to  the  drink  again, 
master.  Fill  me  one  more.  Come.  One  more !” 

“You  are  such  a  promising  fellow,”  said  his  pa¬ 
tron,  putting  on  his  waistcoat  with  great  nicety, 
and  taking  no  heed  of  this  request,  “that  I  must 
caution  you  against  having  too  many  impulses  from 
the  drink,  and  getting  hung  before  your  time. 
What’s  your  age?” 

“  I  don’t  know.” 

“At  any  rate,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “you  are  young 
enough  to  escape  what  I  may  call  a  natural  death 
for  some  years  to  come.  How  can  you  trust  your¬ 
self  in  my  hands  on  so  short  an  acquaintance,  with 
a  halter  round  your  neck?  What  a  confiding  na¬ 
ture  yours  must  be !” 

Hugh  fell  back  a  pace  or  two  and  surveyed  him 
with  a  look  of  mingled  terror,  indignation,  and  sur¬ 
prise.  -'Kegarding  himself  in  the  glass  with  the 
same  complacency  as  before,  and  speaking  as  smooth- 


ORSON  TAMED . 


79 


ly  us  if  he  were  discussing  some  pleasant  chitchat  of 
the  town,  his  patron  went  on  : 

“  Robbery  on  the  king’s  highway,  my  young 
friend,  is  a  very  dangerous  and  ticklish  occupation. 
It  is  pleasant,  I  have  no  doubt,  while  it  lasts ;  but 
like  many  other  pleasures  in  this  transitory  world, 
it  seldom  lasts  long.  And  really  if,  in  the  ingenu¬ 
ousness  of  youth,  you  open  your  heart  so  readily  on 
the  subject,  I  am  afraid  your  career  will  be  an  ex¬ 
tremely  short  one.” 

“ How’s  this?”  said  Hugh.  “What  do  you  talk 
of,  master?  Who  was  it  set  me  on ?” 

“  Who  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  wheeling  sharply  round, 

and  looking  full  at  him  for  the  first  time.  “  I  didn’t 

hear  vou.  Who  was  it  ?” 

*/ 

Hugh  faltered,  and  muttered  something  which 
was  not  audible. 

“Who  wras  it?  I  am  curious  to  know,”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  with  surpassing  affability.  “  Some  rustic 
beauty,  perhaps  ?  But  be  cautious,  my  good  friend. 
They  are  not  always  to  be  trusted.  Do  take  my  ad¬ 
vice  now,  and  be  careful  of  yourself.”  With  these 
words  he  turned  to  the  glass  again,  and  went  on 
with  his  toilet. 

Hugh  would  have  answered  him  that  he,  the  ques¬ 
tioner  himself,  had  set  him  on,  but  the  words  stuck 
in  his  throat.  The  consummate  art  with  which  his 
patron  had  led  him  to  this  point,  and  managed  the 
whole  conversation,  perfectly  baffled  him.  He  did 
not  doubt  that  if  he  had  made  the  retort  which  was 
on  his  lips  when  Mr.  Chester  turned  round  and  ques¬ 
tioned  him  so  keenly,  he  would  straightway  have 
given  him  into  custody  and  had  him  dragged  before 
a  justice  with  the  stolen  property  upon  him ;  in 
which  case  it  was  as  certain  he  would  have  been 
hung  as  it  was  that  he  had  been  born.  The  ascend¬ 
ency  which  it  was  the  purpose  of  the  mau  of  the 
world  to  establish  over  this  savage  instrument,  was 
gained  from  that  time.  Hugh’s  submission  was 
complete.  He  dreaded  him  beyond  description ; 
and  felt  that  accident  and  artifice  had  spun  a  web 
about  him,  which  at  a  touch  from  such  a  master- 
haud  as  his,  would  bind  him  to  the  gallows. 

With  these  thoughts  passing  through  his  mind, 
and  yet  wondering  at  the  very  same  time  how  he 
who  came  there  riotiug  in  the  confidence  of  this 
man  (as  he  thought),  should  be  so  soon  and  so  thor¬ 
oughly  subdued,  Hugh  stood  cowering  before  him, 
regarding  him  uneasily  from  time  to  time,  while  he 
finished  dressing.  When  he  had  done  so,  he  took  up 
the  letter,  broke  the  seal,  and  throwing  himself  back 
iu  his  chair,  read  it  leisurely  through. 

“Very  neatly  worded,  upon  my  life!  Quite  a 
woman’s  letter,  full  of  what  people  call  tenderness, 
and  disinterestedness,  and  heart,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing !” 

As  he  spoke,  he  twisted  it  up,  and  glancing  lazily 
round  at  Hugh  as  though  he  would  say  “You  see 
this?”  held  it  in  the  flame  of  the  candle.  When  it 
was  in  a  full  blaze,  he  tossed  it  into  the  grate,  and 
there  it  smouldered  away. 

“It  was  directed  to  my  son,”  he  said,  turning  to 
Hugh,  “  and  you  did  quite  right  to  bring  it  here.  I 
opened  it  on  my  own  responsibility,  and  you  see  what 
I  have  done  with  it.  Take  this,  for  your  trouble.” 

Hugh  stepped  forward  to  receive  the  piece  of 


money  he  held  out  to  him.  As  he  put  it  in  his 
hand,  he  added : 

“If  you  should  happen  to  find  any  thing  else  of 
this  sort,  or  pick  up  any  kind  of  iuformation  you 
may  think  I  would  like  to  have,  bring  it  here,  will 
you,  my  good  fellow  ?” 

This  was  said  with  a  smile  which  implied  —  or 
Hugh  thought  it  did — “  fail  to  do  so  at  your  peril !” 
He  answered  that  he  would. 

“And  don’t,”  said  his  patron,  with  an  air  of  the 
very  kindest  patronage,  “don’t  be  at  all  downcast 
or  uneasy  -respecting  that  little  rashness  we  have 
been  speaking  of.  Your  neck  is  as  safe  in  my  hands, 
my  good  fellow,  as  though  a  baby’s  fingers  clasped 
it,  I  assure  you.  Take  another  glass.  You  are  qui¬ 
eter  now.” 

Hugh  accepted  it  from  his  hand,  and  looking 
stealthily  at  his  smiling  face,  drank  the  contents  in 
silence. 

“Don’t  you — ha,  ha! — don’t  you  drink  to  the 
drink  any  more  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  in  his  most  win¬ 
ning  manner. 

“  To  you,  sir,”  was  the  sullen  answer,  with  some¬ 
thing  approaching  to  a  bow.  “I  drink  to  you.” 

“  Thank  you.  God  bless  you.  By-the-bye,  what 
is  your  name,  my  good  soul  ?  You  are  called  Hugh, 
I  know,  of  course — your  other  name  ?” 

“  I  have  no  other  name.” 

“  A  very  strange  fellow !  Do  you  mean  that  you 
never  knew  one,  or  that  you  don’t  choose  to  tell  it  ? 
Which  ?” 

“I’d  tell  it  if  I  could,”  said  Hugh,  quickly.  “I 
can’t.  I  have  been  always  called  Hugh;  nothing 
more.  I  never  knew,  nor  saw,  nor  thought  about  a 
father ;  and  I  was  a  boy  of  six — that’s  not  Arery  old 
— when  they  hung  my  mother  up  at  Tyburn  for  a 
couple  of  thousand  men  to  stare  at.  They  might 
have  let  her  live.  She  was  poor  enough.” 

“How  very  sad!”  exclaimed  his  patron,  with  a 
condescending  smile.  “I  have  no  doubt  she  was  an 
exceedingly  fine  woman.” 

“  You  see  that  dog  of  mine  ?”  said  Hugh,  abruptly. 

“Faithful,  I  dare  say?”  rejoined  his  patron,  look¬ 
ing  at  him  through  his  glass ;  “  and  immensely  clev¬ 
er.  Virtuous  and  gifted  animals,  whether  man  or 
beast,  always  are  so  very  hideous.” 

“  Such  a  dog  as  that,  and  one  of  the  same  breed, 
was  the  only  living  thing  except  me  that  howled 
that  day,”  said  Hugh.  “  Out  of  the  two  thousand 
odd — there  was  a  larger  crowd  for  its  being  a  wom¬ 
an — the  dog  and  I  alone  had  any  pity.  If  he’d  have 
been  a  man,  he’d  have  been  glad  to  be  quit  of  her, 
for  she  had  been  forced  to  keep  him  lean  and  half- 
starved  ;  but  being  a  dog,  and  not  having  a  man’s 
sense,  he  was  sorry.” 

“It  was  dull  of  the  brute,  certainly,”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  “  and  very  like  a  brute.” 

Hugh  made  no  rejoinder,  but  whistling  to  his  dog, 
who  sprang  up  at  tbe  sound  and  came  jumping  and 
sporting  about  him,  bade  his  sympathizing  friend 
good-night. 

“  Good-night,”  he  returned.  “  Remember,  you’re 
safe  with  me — quite  safe.  So  long  as  you  deserve 
it,  my  good  fellow,  as  I  hope  you  always  will,  you 
have  a  friend  in  me,  on  whose  silence  you  may  rely. 
Now  do  be  careful  of  yourself,  pray  do,  and  consider 


80 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


what  jeopardy  you  might  have  stood  in.  Good¬ 
night  !  bless  you.” 

Hugh  truckled  before  the  hidden  meaning  of  these 
words  as  much  as  such  a  being  could,  and  crept  out 
of  the  door  so  submissively  and  subserviently — with 
an  air,  in  short,  so  different  from  that  with  which 
he  had  entered — that  his  patron,  on  being  left  alone, 
smiled  more  than  ever. 

“And  yet,”  he  said,  as  he  took  a  pinch  of  snuff,  “  I 
do  not  like  their  having  hanged  his  mother.  The  fel¬ 
low  has  a  fine  eye,  and  I  am  sure  she  was  handsome. 
But  very  probably  she  was  coarse — red-nosed  per¬ 
haps,  and  had  clumsy  feet.  Ay,  it  was  all  for  the 
best,  no  doubt.” 

With  this  comforting  reflection,  he  put  on  his 
coat,  took  a  farewell  glance  at  the  glass,  and  sum¬ 
moned  his  man,  who  promptly  attended,  followed  by 
a  chair  and  its  two  bearers. 

“  Fob !”  said  Mr.  Chester.  “  The  very  atmosphere 
that  centaur  has  breathed  seems  tainted  with  the 
cart  and  ladder.  Here,  Peak.  Bring  some  scent 
and  sprinkle  the  floor,  and  take  away  the  chair  he 
sat  upon,  and  air  it,  and  dash  a  little  of  that  mixture 
upon  me.  I  am  stifled !” 

The  man  obeyed ;  and  the  room  and  its  master  be¬ 
ing  both  purified,  nothing  remained  for  Mr.  Chester 
but  to  demand  his  hat,  to  fold  it  jauntily  under  his 
arm,  to  take  his  seat  in  the  chair  and  be  carried  off, 
humming  a  fashionable  tune. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

HOW  the  accomplished  gentleman  spent  the  even¬ 
ing  in  the  midst  of  a  dazzling  and  brilliant  cir¬ 
cle  ;  how  he  enchanted  all  those  with  whom  he  min¬ 
gled  by  the  grace  of  his  deportment,  the  politeness 
of  his  manner,  the  vivacity  of  his  conversation,  and 
the  sweetness  of  his  voice ;  how  it  was  observed  in 
every  corner,  that  Chester  was  a  man  of  that  happy 
disposition  that  nothing  ruffled  him,  that  he  was  one 
on  whom  the  world’s  cares  and  errors  sat  lightly  as 
his  dress,  and  in  whose  smiling  face  a  calm  and 
tranquil  mind  was  constantly  reflected ;  how  honest 
men,  who  by  instinct  knew  him  better,  bowed  down 
before  him  nevertheless,  deferred  to  his  every  word, 
and  courted  his  favorable  notice ;  how  people,  who 
really  had  good  in  them,  went  with  the  stream,  and 
fawned  and  flattered,  and  approved,  and  despised 
themselves  while  they  did  so,  and  yet  had  not  the 
courage  to  resist ;  how,  in  short,  he  was  one  of  those 
who  are  received  and  cherished  in  society  (as  the 
phrase  is)  by  scores  who  individually  would  shrink 
from  and  be  repelled  by  the  object  of  their  lavish  re¬ 
gard  ;  are  things  of  course,  which  will  suggest  them¬ 
selves.  Matter  so  commonplace  needs  but  a  pass¬ 
ing  glance,  and  there  an  end. 

The  despisers  of  mankind — apart  from  the  mere 
fools  and  mimics,  of  that  creed  —  are  of  two  sorts. 
They  who  believe  their  merit  neglected  and  unap¬ 
preciated,  make  up  one  class ;  they  who  receive  ad¬ 
ulation  and  flattery,  knowing  their  own  worthless¬ 
ness,  compose  the  other.  Be  sure  that  the  coldest- 
hearted  misanthropes  are  ever  of  this  last  order. 

Mr.  Chester  sat  up  in  bed  next  morning,  sipping 


his  coffee,  and  remembering  with  a  kind  of  con¬ 
temptuous  satisfaction  how  he  had  shone  last  night, 
and  how  he  had  been  caressed  and  courted,  when  his 
servant  brought  in  a  very  small  scrap  of  dirty  pa¬ 
per,  tightly  sealed  in  two  places,  on  the  inside  where¬ 
of  was  inscribed  in  pretty  large  text  these  words. 
“A  friend.  Desiring  of  a  conference.  Immediate. 
Private.  Burn  it  when  you’ve  read  it.” 

“  Where  in  the  name  of  the  Gunpowder  Plot  did 
you  pick  up  this?”  said  his  master. 

It  was  given  him  by  a  person  then  waiting  at  the 
door,  the  man  replied. 

“With  a  cloak  and  dagger?”  said  Mr.  Chester. 

With  nothing  more  threatening  about  him,  it  ap¬ 
peared,  than  a  leather  apron  and  a  dirty  face.  “  Let 
him  come  in.”  In  he  came  —  Mr.  Tappertit ;  with 
his  hair  still  on  end,  aud  a  great  lock  in  his  hand, 
which  he  put  down  on  the  floor  in  the  middle  of  the 
chamber  as  if  he  were  about  to  go  through  some  per¬ 
formances  in  which  it  was  a  necessary  agent. 

“  Sir,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  with  a  low  bow,  “  I 
thank  yon  for  this  condescension,  and  am  glad  to 
see  you.  Pardon  the  menial  office  in  which  I  am 
engaged,  sir,  and  extend  your  sympathies  to  one, 
who,  humble  as  his  appearance  is,  has  in’ard  work¬ 
ings  far  above  his  station.” 

Mr.  Chester  held  the  bed -curtain  farther  back, 
and  looked  at  him  with  a  vague  impression  that  he 
was  some  maniac,  who  had  not  only  broken  open  the 
door  of  his  place  of  confinement,  but  had  brought 
away  the  lock.  Mr.  Tappertit  bowed  again,  and  dis¬ 
played  his  legs  to  the  best  advantage. 

“  You  have  heard,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  breast,  “  of  G.  Yarden  Lock-smith 
and  bell-hanger  and  repairs  neatly  executed  in  town 
aud  country,  Clerkenwell,  London  ?” 

“What  then ?”  asked  Mr.  Chester. 

“  I’m  his  ’prentice,  sir.” 

“What  then  ?” 

“Ahem!”  said  Mr.  Tappertit.  “Would  you  per¬ 
mit  me  to  shut  the  door,  sir,  and  will  you  further, 
sir,  give  me  your  honor  bright,  that  what  passes  be¬ 
tween  us  is  in  the  strictest  confidence  ?” 

Mr.  Chester  laid  himself  calmly  down  in  bed  again, 
and  turning  a  perfectly  undisturbed  face  toward  the 
strange  apparition,  which  had  by  this  time  closed 
the  door,  begged  him  to  speak  out,  and  to  be  as  ra¬ 
tional  as  he  could,  without  putting  himself  to  any 
very  great  personal  inconvenience. 

“  In  the  first  place,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  pro¬ 
ducing  a  small  pocket-handkerchief,  aud  shaking  it 
out  of  the  folds,  “  as  I  have  not  a  card  about  me  (for 
the  envy  of  masters  debases  us  below  that  level), 
allow  me  to  offer  the  best  substitute  that  circum¬ 
stances  will  admit  of.  If  you  will  take  that  in  your 
own  hand,  sir,  and  cast  your  eye  on  the  right-hand 
corner,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  offering  it  with  a  grace¬ 
ful  air,  “you  will  meet  with  my  credentials.” 

“  Thank  you,”  answered  Mr.  Chester,  politely  ac¬ 
cepting,  and  turning  to  some  blood-red  characters 
at  one  end.  “  ‘  Four.  Simon  Tappertit.  One.’  Is 
that  the — ” 

“  Without  the  numbers,  sir,  that  is  my  name,”  re¬ 
plied  the  ’prentice.  “  They  are  merely  intended  as 
directions  to  the  washer-woman,  and  have  no  con¬ 
nection  with  myself  or  family.  Your  name,  sir,” 


MK.  OliEBTEK  AT  THE  BALI 


* 


6 


I 


LIBRARY 
pf  IHf 

iSSjlVtHSITY  Of  ILUNOSS 


»• 


3/it.  TAP PERTIT  COMES  TO  THE  POINT. 


83 


said  Mr.  Tappertit,  looking  very  bard  at  his  night¬ 
cap,  “is  Chester,  I  suppose?  You  needn’t  pull  it 
off,  sir,  thank  you.  I  observe  E.  C.  from  here.  We 
will  take  the  rest  for  granted.” 

“  Pray,  Mr.  Tappertit,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  has  that 
complicated  piece  of  iron-mongery  which  you  have 
done  me  the  favor  to  bring  with  you,  any  immediate 
connection  with  the  business  we  are  to  discuss  ?” 

“  It  has  not,  sir,”  rejoined  the  ’prentice.  “  It’s  go¬ 
ing  to  be  fitted  on  a  ware’us  door  in  Thames  Street.” 

“  Perhaps,  as  that  is  the  case,”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
“and  as  it  has  a  stronger  flavor  of  oil  than  I  usually 
refresh  my  bedroom  with,  you  will  oblige  me  so  far 
as  to  put  it  outside  the  door  ?” 

“By  all  means,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  suiting 
the  action  to  the  word. 

“  You’ll  excuse  my  mentioning  it,  I  hope  ?” 

“Don’t  apologize,  sir,  I  beg.  And  now,  if  you 
please,  to  business.” 

During  the  whole  of  this  dialogue,  Mr.  Chester 
had  suffered  nothing  but  his  smile  of  unvarying  se¬ 
renity  and  politeness  to  appear  upon  his  face.  Sim 
Tappertit,  who  had  far  too  good  an  opinion  of  him¬ 
self  to  suspect  that  any  body  could  be  playing  upon 
him,  thought  within  himself  that  this  was  something 
like  the  respect  to  which  he  was  entitled,  and  drew 
a  comparison  from  this  courteous  demeanor  of  a  stran¬ 
ger,  by  no  means  favorable  to  the  worthy  lock-smith. 

“  From  what  passes  in  our  house,”  said  Mr.  Tap¬ 
pertit,  “I  am  aware,  sir,  that  your  son  keeps  com¬ 
pany  with  a  young  lady  against  your  inclinations. 
Sir,  your  son  has  not  used  me  well.” 

“  Mr.  Tappertit,”  said  the  other,  “  you  grieve  me 
beyond  description.” 

“Thank  you,  sir,”  replied  the  ’prentice.  “I’m 
glad  to  hear  you  say  so.  He’s  very  proud,  sir,  is 
your  son  ;  very  haughty.” 

“I  am  afraid  he  is  haughty,”  said  Mr.  Chester. 
“  Do  you  know  I  was  really  afraid  of  that  before ; 
and  you  confirm  me  ?” 

“To  recount  the  menial  offices  I’ve  had  to  do  for 
your  son,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit ;  “  the  chairs  I’ve 
had  to  hand  him,  the  coaches  I’ve  had  to  call  for 
him,  the  numerous  degrading  duties,  wholly  uncon¬ 
nected  with  my  indenters,  that  I’ve  had  to  do  for 
him,  would  fill  a  family  Bible.  Besides  which,  sir, 
he  is  but  a  young  man  himself,  and  I  do  not  consid¬ 
er  1  thank’ee  Sim,’  a  proper  form  of  address  on  those 
occasions.” 

“  Mr.  Tappertit,  your  wisdom  is  beyond  your  years. 
Pray  go  on.” 

“I  thank  you  for  your  good  opinion,  sir,”  said 
Sim,  much  gratified,  “  and  will  endeavor  so  to  do. 
Now,  sir,  on  this  account  (and  perhaps  for  another 
reason  or  two  which  I  needn’t  go  into)  I  am  on  your 
side.  And  what  I  tell  you  is  this — that  as  long  as 
our  people  go  backward  and  forward,  to  and  fro,  up 
and  down,  to  that  there  jolly  old  Maypole,  letter- 
iug,  and  messaging,  and  fetching,  and  carrying,  you 
couldn’t  help  your  son  keeping  company  with  that 
young  lady  by  deputy — not  if  he  was  minded  night 
and  day  by  all  the  Horse  Guards,  and  every  man  of 
’em  in  the  very  fullest  uniform.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  stopped  to  take  breath  after  this, 
and  then  started  fresh  again. 

•'Now,  sir,  I  am  a-comiug  to  the  point.  You  will 


inquire  of  me,  ‘  how  is  this  to  be  prevented  V  I’ll 
tell  you  how.  If  an  honest,  civil,  smiling  gentleman 
like  you — ” 

“  Mr.  Tappertit — really — ” 

“  No,  no,  I’m  serious,”  rejoined  the  ’prentice,  “  I 
am,  upon  my  soul.  If  an  honest,  civil,  smiling  gen¬ 
tleman  like  you  was  to  talk  but  ten  minutes  to  our 
old  woman — that’s  Mrs.  Varden — and  flatter  her  up 
a  bit,  you’d  gain  her  over  forever.  Then  there’s  this 
point  got — that  her  daughter  Dolly” — here  a  flush 
came  over  Mr.  Tappertit’s  face  —  “  wouldn’t  be  al¬ 
lowed  to  be  a  go-between  from  that  time  forward ; 
and  till  that  point’s  got,  there’s  nothing  ever  will 
prevent  her.  Mind  that.” 

“Mr.  Tappertit,  your  knowledge  of  human  na¬ 
ture — ” 

“Wait  a  minute,”  said  Sim,  folding  his  arms  with 
a  dreadful  calmness.  “Now  I  come  to  the  point. 
Sir,  there  is  a  villain  at  that  Maypole,  a  monster  in 
human  shape,  a  vagabond  of  the  deepest  dye,  that 
unless  you  get  rid  of,  and  have  kidnaped  and  car¬ 
ried  off  at  the  very  least — nothing  less  will  do — will 
marry  your  son  to  that  young  woman,  as  certainly 
and  as  surely  as  if  he  was  the  Archbishop  of  Canter¬ 
bury  himself.  He  will,  sir,  for  the  hatred  and  mal¬ 
ice  that  he  bears  to  you ;  let  alone  the  pleasure  of 
doing  a  bad  action,  which  to  him  is  its  own  reward. 
If  you  knew  how  this  chap,  this  Joseph  Willet — 
that’s  his  name  —  comes  backward  and  forward  to 
our  house,  libeling,  and  denouncing,  and  threatening 
you,  and  how  I  shudder  when  I  hear  him,  you’d  hate 
him  worse  than  I  do — worse  than  I  do,  sir,”  said  Mr. 
Tappertit,  wildly,  putting  his  hair  up  straighter,  and 
making  a  crunching  noise  with  his  teeth ;  “  if  such 
a  thing  is  possible.” 

“  A  little  private  vengeance  in  this,  Mr.  Tappertit  ?” 

“Private  vengeance,  sir,  or  public  sentiment,  or 
both  combined  —  destroy  him,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit. 
“Miggs  says  so  too.  Miggs  and  me  both  say  so. 
We  can’t  bear  the  plotting  and  undermining  that 
takes  place.  Our  souls  recoil  from  it.  Barnaby 
Eudge  and  Mrs.  Rudge  are  in  it  likewise ;  but  the 
villain,  Joseph  Willet,  is  the  ringleader.  Their  plot¬ 
tings  and  schemes  are  known  to  me  and  Miggs.  If 
you  want  information  of  ’em  apply  to  us.  Put  Jo¬ 
seph  Willet  down,  sir.  Destroy  him.  Crush  him. 
And  be  happy.” 

With  these  words,  Mr.  Tappertit,  who  seemed  to 
expect  no  reply,  and  to  hold  it  as  a  necessary  conse¬ 
quence  of  his  eloquence  that  his  hearer  should  be  ut¬ 
terly  stunned,  dumbfounded,  and  overwhelmed,  fold¬ 
ed  his  arms  so  that  the  palm  of  each  hand  rested  on 
the  opposite  shoulder,  and  disappeared  after  the  man¬ 
ner  of  those  mysterious  warners  of  whom  he  had  read 
in  cheap  story-books. 

“  That  fellow,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  relaxing  his  face 
when  he  was  fairly  gone,  “  is  good  practice.  I  have 
some  command  of  my  features,  beyond  all  doubt.  He 
fully  confirms  what  I  suspected,  though ;  and  blunt 
tools  are  sometimes  found  of  use,  where  sharper  in¬ 
struments  would  fail.  I  fear  I  may  be  obliged  to 
make  great  havoc  among  these  worthy  people.  A 
troublesome  necessity !  I  quite  feel  for  them.” 

With  that  he  fell  into  a  quiet  slumber:  subsided 
into  such  a  gentle,  pleasant  sleep,  that  it  was  quite 
infantine. 


84 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


CHAPTER  XXY. 

LEAVING  the  favored,  and  well-received,  and  flat¬ 
tered  of  the  world;  him  of  the  world  most  world¬ 
ly,  who  never  compromised  himself  by  an  ungentle- 
manly  action,  and  never  was  guilty  of  a  manly  one ; 
to  lie  smilingly  asleep — for  even  sleep,  working  hut 
little  change  in  his  dissembling  face,  became  with 
him  a  piece  of  cold,  conventional  hypocrisy — we  fol- 


lane  or  path  and  leaving  her  to  pursue  her  way  alone, 
until  he  stealthily  emerged  again  and  came  upon  her 
with  a  wild  shout  of  merriment,  as  his  wayward  and 
capricious  nature  prompted.  Now  he  would  call  to 
her  from  the  topmost  branch  of  some  high  tree  by  the 
road-side  ;  now  using  his  tall  staff  as  a  leaping-pole, 
come  flying  over  ditch  or  hedge  or  five-barred  gate  ; 
now  run  with  surprisiug  swiftness  for  a  mile  or  more 
on  the  straight  road,  and  halting,  sport  upon  a  patch 


NOW  HE  WOUXD  CALL  TO  HEE  FROM  THE  TOPMOST  BRANCH  OF  SOME  HIGH  TREE  BY  THE  ROAD-SIDE. 


low  in  the  steps  of  two  slow  travelers  on  foot,  mak¬ 
ing  toward  Chigwell. 

Barnaby  and  his  mother.  Grip  in  their  company, 
of  course. 

The  widow,  to  whom  each  painful  mile  seemed 
longer  than  the  last,  toiled  wearily  along ;  while  Bar¬ 
naby,  yielding  to  every  inconstant  impulse,  fluttered 
here  and  there,  now  leaving  her  far  behind,  now  lin¬ 
gering  far  behind  himself,  now  darting  into  some  by- 


of  grass  with  Grip  till  she  came  up.  These  were  his 
delights ;  and  when  his  patient  mother  heard  his 
merry  voice,  or  looked  into  his  flushed  and  healthy 
face,  she  would  not  have  abated  them  by  one  sad 
word  or  murmur,  though  each  had  been  to  her  a 
source  of  suffering  in  the  same  degree  as  it  was  to 
him  of  pleasure. 

It  is  something  to  look  upon  enjoyment,  so  that 
it  he  free  and  wild  and  in  the  face  of  nature,  though 


THE  FIE  ST  TIME  AND  THE  LAST. 


85 


it  is  but  the  enjoyment  of  an  idiot.  It  is  something 
to  know  that  Heaven  has  left  the  capacity  of  glad¬ 
ness  in  such  a  creature’s  breast ;  it  is  something  to 
be  assured  that,  however  lightly  men  may  crush  that 
faculty  in  their  fellows,  the  Great  Creator  of  man¬ 
kind  imparts  it  even  to  his  despised  and  slighted 
work.  Who  would  not  rather  see  a  poor  idiot  happy 
in  the  sunlight,  than  a  wise  man  pining  in  a  darken¬ 
ed  jail! 

Ye  men  of  gloom  and  austerity,  who  paint  the  face 
of  Infinite  Benevolence  with  an  eternal  frown ;  read 
in  the  Everlasting  Book,  wide  open  to  your  view,  the 
lesson  it  would  teach.  Its  pictures  are  not  in  black 
and  sombre  hues,  but  bright  and  glowing  tints  ;  its 
music — save  when  ye  drown  it — is  not  in  sighs  and 
groans,  but  songs  and  cheerful  sounds.  Listen  to 
the  million  voices  in  the  summer  air,  and  find  one 
dismal  as  your  own.  Bemember,  if  ye  can,  the  sense 
of  hope  and  pleasure  which  every  glad  return  of  day 
awakens  in  the  breast  of  all  your  kind  who  have  not 
changed  their  nature ;  and  learn  some  wisdom  even 
from  the  witless,  when  their  hearts  are  lifted  up  they 
know  not  why,  by  all  the  mirth  and  happiness  it 
brings. 

The  widow’s  breast  was  full  of  care,  was  laden 
heavily  with  secret  dread  and  sorrow  ;  but  her  boy’s 
gayety  of  heart  gladdened  her,  and  beguiled  the  long 
journey.  Sometimes  he  would  bid  her  lean  upon 
his  arm,  and  would  keep  beside  her*steadily  for  a 
short  distance ;  but  it  was  more  his  nature  to  be 
rambling  to  and  fro,  and  she  better  liked  to  see  him 
free  and  happy,  even  than  to  have  him  near  her,  be¬ 
cause  she  loved  him  better  than  herself. 

She  had  quitted  the  place  to  which  they  were  trav¬ 
eling,  directly  after  the  event  which  had  changed 
her  whole  existence ;  and  for  two-and-twenty  years 
had  never  had  courage  to  revisit  it.  It  was  her  na¬ 
tive  village.  How  many  recollections  crowded  on 
her  mind  when  it  appeared  in  sight ! 

Two-and-twenty  years.  Her  boy’s  whole  life  and 
history.  The  last  time  she  looked  back  upon  those 
roofs  among  the  trees,  she  carried  him  in  her  arms, 
an  infant.  How  often  since  that  time  had  she  sat 
beside  him  night  and  day,  watching  for  the  dawn  of 
mind  that  never  came ;  how  had  she  feared,  and 
doubted,  and  yet  hoped,  long  after  conviction  forced 
itself  upon  her!  The  little  stratagems  she  had  de¬ 
vised  to  try  him,  the  little  tokens  he  had  given  in  his 
childish  way — not  of  dullness  but  of  something  infi¬ 
nitely  worse,  so  ghastly  and  unchild-like  in  its  cun¬ 
ning — came  back  as  vividly  as  if  but  yesterday  had 
intervened.  The  room  in  which  they  used  to  be ; 
the  spot  in  which  his  cradle  stood ;  he,  old  and  elfin¬ 
like  in  face,  but  ever  dear  to  her,  gazing  at  her  with 
a  wild  and  vacant  eye,  and  crooning  some  uncouth 
song  as  she  sat  by  and  rocked  him ;  every  circum¬ 
stance  of  his  infancy  came  thronging  back,  and  the 
most  trivial,  perhaps,  the  most  distinctly. 

His  older  childhood,  too ;  the  strange  imaginings 
he  had;  his  terror  of  certain  senseless  thiugs — fa¬ 
miliar  objects  he  endowed  with  life ;  the  slow  and 
gradual  breaking  out  of  that  one  horror,  in  which, 
before  his  birth,  his  darkened  intellect  began  ;  how, 
in  the  midst  of  all,  she  had  found  some  hope  and 
comfort  in  his  being  unlike  another  child,  and  had 
gone  on  almost  believing  in  the  slow  development 


of  his  mind  until  he  grew  a  man,  and  then  his  child¬ 
hood  was  complete  and  lasting;  one  after  another, 
all  these  old  thoughts  sprung  up  within  her,  strong 
after  their  long  slumber  and  bitterer  than  ever. 

She  took  his  arm  and  they  hurried  through  the 
village  street.  It  was  the  same  as  it  was  wont  to 
be  in  old  times,  yet  different  too,  and  wore  another 
air.  The  change  was  in  herself,  not  it ;  but  she  nev¬ 
er  thought  of  that,  and  wondered  at  its  alteration, 
and  where  it  lay,  and  what  it  was. 

The  people  all  knew  Barnaby,  and  the  children  of 
the  place  came  flocking  round  him — as  she  remem¬ 
bered  to  have  done  with  their  fathers  and  mothers 
round  some  silly  beggarman,  when  a  child  herself. 
None  of  them  knew  her;  they  passed  each  well-re¬ 
membered  house,  and  yard,  and  homestead;  and 
striking  into  the  fields,  were  soon  alone  again. 

The  Warren  was  the  end  of  their  journey.  Mr. 
Haredale  was  walking  in  the  garden,  and  seeing 
them  as  they  passed  the  iron  gate,  uulocked  it,  and 
bade  them  enter  that  way. 

“At  length  you  have  mustered  heart  to  visit  the  old 
place,”  he  said  to  the  widow.  “  I  am  glad  you  have.” 

“  For  the  first  time,  and  the  last,  sir,”  she  replied. 

“  The  first  for  many  years,  but  not  the  last  ?” 

“  The  very  last.” 

“You  mean,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  regarding  her 
with  some  surprise,  “that  having  made  this  effort, 
you  are  resolved  not  to  persevere  and  are  determined 
to  relapse?  This  is  unworthy  of  you.  I  have  oft¬ 
en  told  you,  you  should  return  here.  You  would  be 
happier  here  than  elsewhere,  I  know.  As  to  Barna¬ 
by,  it’s  quite  his  home.” 

“And  Grip’s,”  said  Barnaby,  holding  the  basket 
open.  The  raven  hopped  gravely  out,  and  perching 
on  his  shoulder  and  addressing  himself  to  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  cried — as  a  hint,  perhaps,  that  some  temperate 
refreshment  would  be  acceptable — “Polly  put  the 
ket-tle  on,  we’ll  all  have  tea !” 

“Hear  me, Mary,”  said  Mr. Haredale  kindly,  as  he 
motioned  her  to  walk  with  him  toward  the  house. 
“  Your  life  has  been  an  example  of  patience  and  for¬ 
titude,  except  in  this  one  particular  which  has  often 
given  me  great  pain.  It  is  enough  to  know  that 
you  were  cruelly  involved  in  the  calamity  which  de¬ 
prived  me  of  an  only  brother,  and  Emma  of  her  fa¬ 
ther,  without  being  obliged  to  suppose  (as  I  some¬ 
times  am)  that  you  associate  us  with  the  author  of 
our  joint  misfortunes.” 

“Associate  you  with  him,  sir!”  she  cried. 

“  Indeed,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  I  think  you  do.  I 
almost  believe  that  because  your  husband  was  bound 
by  so  many  ties  to  our  relation,  and  died  in  his  serv¬ 
ice  and  defense,  you  have  come  in  some  sort  to  con¬ 
nect  us  with  his  murder.” 

“Alas!”  she  answered.  “You  little  know  my 
heart,  sir.  You  little  know  the  truth !” 

“  It  is  natural  you  should  do  so ;  it  is  very  prob¬ 
able  you  may,  without  being  conscious  of  it,”  said 
Mr.  Haredale,  speaking  more  to  himself  than  her. 
“  We  are  a  fallen  house.  Money,  dispensed  with 
the  most  lavish  hand,  would  be  a  poor  recompense 
for  sufferings  like  yours ;  and  thinly  scattered  by 
hands  so  pinched  and  tied  as  ours,  it  becomes  a  mis¬ 
erable  mockery.  I  feel  it  so,  God  knows,”  he  added, 
hastily.  “^Vhy  should  I  wonder  if  she  does!” 


86 


BABNABY  BUDGE . 


“  You  do  me  wrong,  dear  sir,  indeed,”  she  rejoined, 
with  great  earnestness;  “and  yet  when  you  come  to 
hear  what  I  desire  your  leave  to  say — ” 

“I  shall  find  my  doubts  confirmed?”  he  said,  ob¬ 
serving  that  she  faltered  and  became  confused. 
“  Well !” 

He  quickened  his  pace  for  a  few  steps,  but  fell 
back  again  to  her  side,  and  said : 

“And  have  you  come  all  this  way  at  last,  solely 
to  speak  to  me  ?” 

She  answered,  “Yes.” 

“A  curse,”  he  muttered,  “upon  the  wretched  state 
of  us  proud  beggars,  from  whom  the  poor  and  rich 
are  equally  at  a  distance ;  the  one  being  forced  to 
treat  us  with  a  show  of  cold  respect ;  the  other  con¬ 
descending  to  us  in  their  every  deed  and  word,  and 
keeping  more  aloof,  the  nearer  they  approach  us. 
Why,  if  it  were  pain  to  you  (as  it  must  have  been) 
to  break  for  this  slight  purpose  the  chain  of  halbit 
forged  through  two-and-twenty  years,  could  you  not 
let  me  know  your  wish,  and  beg  me  to  come  to  you  ?” 

“There  was  not  time,  sir,”  she  rejoined.  “I  took 
my  resolution  but  last  night,  and  taking  it,  felt  that 
I  must  not  lose  a  day — a  day !  an  hour — in  having 
speech  with  you.” 

They  had  by  this  time  reached  the  bouse.  Mr. 
Haredale  paused  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  her  as 
if  surprised  by  the  energy  of  her  manner.  Observ¬ 
ing,  however,  that  she  took  no  heed  of  him,  but 
glanced  up,  shuddering,  at  the  old  walls  with  which 
such  horrors  were  connected  in  her  mind,  he  led  her 
by  a  private  stair  into  his  library,  where  Emma  was 
seated  in  a  window,  reading. 

The  young  lady,  seeing  who  approached,  hastily 
rose  and  laid  aside  her  book,  and  with  many  kind 
words,  and  not  without  tears,  gave  her  a  warm  and 
earnest  welcome.  But  the  widow  shrunk  from  her 
embrace  as  though  she  feared  her,  and  sunk  down 
trembling  on  a  chair. 

“  It  is  the  return  to  this  place  after  so  long  an  ab¬ 
sence,”  said  Emma,  gently.  “Pray  ring,  dear  uncle 
— or  stay — Barnaby  will  run  himself  and  ask  for 
wine — ” 

“Not  for  the  world,”  she  cried.  “It  would  have 
another  taste — I  could  not  touch  it.  I  want  but  a 
minute’s  rest.  Nothing  but  that.” 

Miss  Haredale  stood  beside  her  chair,  regarding 
her  with  silent  pity.  She  remained  for  a  little  time 
quite  still ;  then  rose  and  turned  to  Mr.  Haredale, 
who  had  sat  down  in  his  easy-chair,  and  was  con¬ 
templating  her  with  fixed  attention. 

The  tale  connected  with  the  mansion  borne  in 
mind,  it  seemed,  as  has  been  already  said,  the  chosen 
theatre  for  such  a  deed  as  it  had  known.  The  room 
in  which  this  group  were  now  assembled — hard  by 
the  verv  chamber  where  the  act  was  done  —  dull, 
dark,  and  sombre;  heavy  with  worm-eaten  books'; 
deadened  and  shut  in  by  faded  hangings,  muffling 
every  sound ;  shadowed  mournfully  by  trees  whose 
rustling  boughs  gave  ever  and  anon  a  spectral 
knocking  at  the  glass;  wore,  beyond  all  others  in 
the  house,  a  ghostly,  gloomy  air.  Nor  were  the  group 
assembled  there,  unfitting  tenants  of  the  spot.  The 
widow,  with  her  marked  and  startling  face  and 
downcast  eyes ;  Mr.  Haredale  stern  and  despondent 
ever ;  his  niece  beside  him,  like,  yet  mo§t  unlike,  the 


picture  of  her  father,  which  gazed  reproachfully 
down  upon  them  from  the  blackened  wall;  Barna¬ 
by,  with  his  vacant  look  and  restless  eye ;  were  all 
in  keeping  with  the  place,  and  actors  in  the  legend. 
Nay,  the  very  raven,  who  had  hopped  upon  the  ta¬ 
ble,  and  with  the  air  of  some  old  necromancer  ap¬ 
peared  to  be  profoundly  studying  a  great  folio  vol¬ 
ume  that  lay  open  on  a  desk,  was  strictly  in  unison 
with  the  rest,  and  looked  like  the  embodied  spirit 
of  evil  biding  his  time  of  mischief. 

“  I  scarcely  know,”  said  the  widow,  breaking  si¬ 
lence,  “  how  to  begin.  You  will  think  my  mind  dis¬ 
ordered.” 

“The  whole  tenor  of  your  quiet  and  reproachless 
life  since  you  were  last  here,”  returned  Mr.  Haredale, 
mildly,  “shall  bear  witness  for  you.  Why  do  you 
fear  to  awaken  such  a  suspicion  ?  You  do  not  speak 
to  strangers.  You  have  not  to  claim  our  interest  or 
consideration  for  the  first  time.  Be  more  yourself. 
Take  heayt.  Any  advice  or  assistance  that  I  can 
give  you,  you  know  is  yours  of  right,  and  freely 
yours.” 

“What  if  I  came,  sir,”  she  rejoined,  “I  who  have 
but  one  other  friend  on  earth,  to  reject  your  aid  from 
this  moment,  and  to  say  that  henceforth  I  launch 
myself  upon  the  world,  alone  and  unassisted,  to  sink 
or  swim  as  Heaven  may  decree !” 

“You  would  have,  if  you  came  to  me  for  such  a 
purpose,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  calmly,  “  some  reason  to 
assign  for  conduct  so  extraordinary,  which — if  one 
may  entertain  the  possibility  of  any  thing  so  wild 
and  strange — would  have  its  weight,  of  course.” 

“That,  sir,”  she  answered,  “is  the  misery  of  my 
distress.  I  can  give  no  reason  whatever.  My  own 
bare  word  is  all  that  I  can  offer.  It  is  my  duty,  my 
imperative  and  bounden  duty.  If  I  did  not  discharge 
it,  I  should  be  a  base  and  guilty  wretch.  Having 
said  that,  my  lips  are  sealed,  and  I  can  say  no  more.” 

As  though  she  felt  relieved  at  having  said  so  much, 
and  had  nerved  herself  to  the  remainder  of  her  task, 
she  spoke  from  this  time  with  a  firmer  voice  and 
heightened  courage. 

“  Heaven  is  my  witness,  as  my  own  heart  is — and 
yours,  dear  young  lady,  will  speak  for  me,  I  know — 
that  I  have  lived,  since  that  time  we  all  have  bit¬ 
ter  reason  to  remember,  in  unchanging  devotion,  and 
gratitude  to  this  family.  Heaven  is  my  witness  that 
go  where  I  may,  I  shall  preserve  those  feelings  un¬ 
impaired.  And  it  is  my  witness,  too,  that  they  alone 
impel  me  to  the  course  I  must  take,  and  from  which 
nothing  now  shall  turn  me,  as  I  hope  for  mercy.” 

“  These  are  strange  riddles,”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  In  this  world,  sir,”  she  replied,  “  they  may,  per¬ 
haps,  never  be  explained.  In  another,  the  Truth  will 
be  discovered  in  its  own  good  time.  And  may  that 
time,”  she  added,  in  a  low  voice,  “  be  far  distant !” 

“  Let  me  be  sure,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  that  I  un¬ 
derstand  you,  for  I  am  doubtful  of  my  own  senses. 
Do  you  mean  that  you  are  resolved  voluntarily  to 
deprive  yourself  of  those  meaus  of  support  you  have 
received  from  us  so  long — that  you  are  determined 
to  resign  the  annuity  we  settled  on  you  twenty  years 
ago — to  leave  house,  and  home,  and  goods,  and  begin 
life  anew — and  this,  for  some  secret  reason  or  mon¬ 
strous  fancy  which  is  incapable  of  explanation,  which 
only  now  exists,  and  has  been  dormant  all  this  time  ? 


“GUILTY,  AND  YET  INNOCENT '.” 


87 


In  the  name  of  God,  under  what  delusion  are  you  la¬ 
boring  ?” 

“  As  I  am  deeply  thankful,”  she  made  answer,  “  for 
the  kindness  of  those,  alive  and  dead,  who  have  own¬ 
ed  this  house ;  and  as  I  would  not  have  its  roof  fall 
down  and  crush  me,  or  its  very  walls  drip  blood,  my 
name  being  spoken  in  their  hearing ;  I  never  will 
again  subsist  upon  their  bounty,  or  let  it  help  me  to 
subsistence.  You  do  not  know,”  she  added,  sudden¬ 
ly,  “  to  what  uses  it  may  be  applied ;  into  what  hands 
it  may  pass.  I  do,  and  I  renounce  it.” 

“  Surely,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  its  uses  rest  with 
you.” 


believe  that  I  am  rather  to  be  pitied  than  condemned. 
I  must  leave  my  house  to-morrow,  for  while  I  stay 
there,  it  is  haunted.  My  future  dwelling,  if  I  am  to 
live  in  peace,  must  be  a  secret.  If  my  poor  boy  should 
ever  stray  this  way,  do  not  tempt  him  to  disclose  it 
or  have  him  watched  when  he  returns ;  for  if  we  are 
hunted,  we  must  fly  again.  And  now  this  load  is  off 
my  mind  I  beseech  you — and  you,  dear  Miss  Hare- 
dale,  too  —  to  trust  me  if  you  can,  and  think  of  me 
kindly  as  you  have  been  used  to  do.  If  I  die  and 
can  not  tell  my  secret  even  then  (for  that  may  come 
to  pass),  it  will  sit  the  lighter  on  my  breast  in  that 
hour  for  this  day’s  work  ;  and  on  that  day,  and  every 


6HE  6AT  THERE,  THOUGHTFUL  AND  APART. 


“  They  did.  They  rest  with  me  no  longer.  It  may 
be — it  is — devoted  to  purposes  that  mock  the  dead 
in  their  graves.  It  never  can  prosper  with  me.  It 
will  bring  some  other  heavy  judgment  on  the  head 
of  my  dear  sou,  whose  innocence  will  suffer  for  his 
mother’s  guilt.” 

“  What  words  are  these !”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  re¬ 
garding  her  with  wonder.  “  Among  what  associates 
have  you  fallen  ?  Into  what  guilt  have  you  ever 
been  betrayed  ?” 

“  I  am  guilty,  and  yet  innocent ;  wrong,  yet  right ; 
good  in  intention,  though  constrained  to  shield  and 
aid  the  bad.  Ask  me  no  more  questions,  sir ;  but 


day  until  it  comes,  I  will  pray  for  and  thank  you 
both,  and  trouble  you  no  more.” 

With  that,  she  would  have  left  them,  but  they  de¬ 
tained  her,  and  with  many  soothing  words  and  kind 
entreaties,  besought  her  to  consider  what  she  did, 
and  above  all  to  repose  more  freely  upon  them,  and 
say  what  weighed  so  sorely  on  her  mind.  Finding 
her  deaf  to  their  persuasions,  Mr.  Haredale  suggested, 
as  a  last  resource,  that  she  should  confide  in  Emma, 
of  whom,  as  a  young  person  and  one  of  her  own  sex, 
she  might  stand  in  less  dread  than  of  himself.  From 
this  proposal,  however,  she  recoiled  with  the  same 
indescribable  repugnance  she  had  manifested  when 


88 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


they  met.  The  utmost  that  could  be  wrung  from 
her  was  a  promise  that  she  would  receive  Mr.  Hare- 
dale  at  her  owu  house  next  evening,  and  in  the  mean 
time  reconsider  her  determination  and  their  dissua¬ 
sions — though  any  change  on  her  part,  as  she  told 
them,  was  quite  hopeless.  This  condition  made  at 
last,  they  reluctantly  suffered  her  to  depart,  since  she 
would  neither  eat  nor  drink  within  the  house  ;  and 
she,  and  Barnaby,  and  Grip,  accordingly  went  out  as 
they  had  come,  by  the  private  stair  and  garden-gate ; 
seeing  and  being  seen  of  no  one  by  the  way. 

It  was  remarkable  in  the  raven  that  during  the 
whole  interview  he  had  kept  his  eye  on  his  book 
with  exactly  the  air  of  a  very  sly  human  rascal,  who, 
under  the  mask  of  pretending  to  read  hard,  w'as  list¬ 
ening  to  every  thing.  He  still  appeared  to  have  the 
conversation  very  strongly  in  his  mind,  for  although, 
when  they  were  alone  again,  he  issued  orders  for  the 
instant  preparation  of  innumerable  kettles  for  pur¬ 
poses  of  tea,  he  was  thoughtful,  and  rather  seemed 
to  do  so  from  an  abstract  sense  of  duty,  than  with 
any  regard  to  making  himself  agreeable,  or  being 
what  is  commonly  called  good  company. 

They  were  to  return  by  the  coach.  As  there  was 
an  interval  of  full  two  hours  before  it  started,  and 
they  needed  rest  and  some  refreshment,  Barnaby 
begged  hard  for  a  visit  to  the  Maypole.  But  his 
mother,  who  had  no  wish  to  be  recognized  by  any  of 
those  who  had  known  her  long  ago,  and  who  feared 
besides  that  Mr.  Haredale  might,  on  second  thoughts, 
dispatch  some  messenger  to  that  place  of  entertain¬ 
ment  in  quest  of  her,  proposed  to  wait  in  the  church¬ 
yard  instead.  As  it  was  easy  for  Barnaby  to  buy 
and  carry  thither  such  humble  viands  as  they  re¬ 
quired,  he  cheerfully  assented,  and  in  the  church¬ 
yard  they  sat  down  to  take  their  frugal  dinner. 

Here,  again,  the  raven  was  in  a  highly  reflective 
state ;  walking  up  and  down  when  he  had  dined,  with 
an  air  of  elderly  complacency  which  was  strongly 
suggestive  of  his  having  his  hands  under  his  coat¬ 
tails  ;  and  appearing  to  read  the  tombstones  with  a 
very  critical  taste.  Sometimes,  after  a  long  inspec¬ 
tion  of  an  epitaph,  he  would  strop  his  beak  upon  the 
grave  to  which  it  referred,  and  cry  in  his  hoarse 
tones,  “I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil!”  but 
whether, he  addressed  his  observations  to  any  sup¬ 
posed  person  below,  or  merely  threw  them  off  as  a 
general  remark,  is  matter  of  uncertainty. 

It  was  a  quiet  pretty  spot,  but  a  sad  one  for  Bar¬ 
naby ’s  mother ;  for  Mr.  Reuben  Haredale  lay  there, 
and  near  the  vault  in  which  his  ashes  rested,  was  a 
stone  to  the  memory  of  her  own  husband,  with  a 
brief  inscription  recording  how  and  when  he  had 
lost  his  life.  She  sat  here,  thoughtful  and  apart, 
until  their  time  was  out,  and  the  distant  horn  told 
that  the  coach  was  coming. 

Barnaby,  who  had  been  sleeping  on  the  grass, 
sprung  up  quickly  at  the  sound ;  and  Grip,  who  ap¬ 
peared  to  understand  it  equally  well,  walked  into 
his  basket  straightway,  entreating  society  in  gen¬ 
eral  (as  though  he  intended  a  kind  of  satire  upon 
them  in  connection  with  cliurch-yards)  never  to  say 
die  on  any  terms.  They  were  soon  on  the  coach- 
top  and  rolling  along  the  road. 

It  went  round  by  the  Maypole,  and  stopped  at  the 
door.  Joe  was  from  home,  and  Hugh  came  slug¬ 


gishly  out  to  hand  up  the  parcel  that  it  called  for. 
There  was  no  fear  of  old  John  coming  out.  They 
could  see  him  from  the  coach-roof  fast  asleep  in  hi3 
cozy  bar.  It  was  a  part  of  John’s  character.  He 
made  a  point  of  going  to  sleep  at  the  coach’s  time. 
He  despised  gadding  about ;  he  looked  upon  coaches 
as  things  that  ought  to  be  indicted;  as  disturbers 
of  the  peace  of  mankind ;  as  restless,  bustling,  busy, 
horn-blowing  contrivances,  quite  beneath  the  dig¬ 
nity  of  men,  and  only  suited  to  giddy  girls  that  did 
nothing  but  chatter  and  go  a-shopping.  “  We  know 
nothing  about  coaches  here,  sir,”  John  would  say,  if 
any  unlucky  stranger  made  inquiry  touching  the  of¬ 
fensive  vehicles ;  “we  don’t  book  for  ’em ;  we’d  rath¬ 
er  not ;  they’re  more  trouble  than  they’re  worth,  with 
their  noise  and  rattle.  If  you  like  to  wait  for  ’em 
you  can;  but  we  don’t  know  any  thing  about  ’em; 
they  may  call  and  they  may  not — there’s  a  carrier — 
he  was  looked  upon  as  quite  good  enough  for  us, 
when  I  was  a  boy.” 

She  dropped  her  veil  as  Hugh  climbed  up,  and 
while  he  hung  behind,  and  talked  to  Barnaby  in 
whispers.  But  neither  he  nor  any  other  person 
spoke  to  her,  or  noticed  her,  or  had  any  curiosity 
about  her ;  and  so,  an  alien,  she  visited  and  left  the 
village  where  she  had  been  born,  and  had  lived  a 
merry  child,  a  comely  girl,  a  happy  wife  — where 
she  had  known  all  her  enjoyment  of  life,  and  had 
entered  on  its  hardest  sorrows. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

“  A  ND  you’re  not  surprised  to  hear  this,  Yarden  ?” 

Jjl  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “Well!  You  and  she 
have  always  been  the  best  friends,  and  you  should 
understand  her  if  any  body  does.” 

“I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,”  rejoined  the  lock-smith. 
“  I  didn’t  say  I  understood  her.  I  wouldn’t  have  the 
presumption  to  say  that  of  any  woman.  It’s  not  so 
easily  done.  But  I  am  not  so  much  surprised,  sir, 
as  you  expected  me  to  be,  certainly.” 

“  May  I  ask  why  not,  my  good  friend  ?” 

“I  have  seen,  sir,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  with 
evident  reluctance,  “  I  have  seen  in  connection  with 
her,  something  that  has  filled  me  with  distrust  aud 
uneasiness.  She  has  made  bad  friends,  how,  or 
when,  I  don’t  know ;  but  that  her  house  is  a  refuge 
for  one  robber  and  cut-throat  at  least,  I  am  certain. 
There,  sir !  Now  it’s  out.” 

“Yarden!” 

“  My  own  eyes,  sir,  are  my  witnesses,  and  for  her 
sake  I  would  be  willingly  half-blind,  if  I  could  but 
have  the  pleasure  of  mistrusting  ’em.  I  have  kept 
the  secret  till  now,  and  it  will  go  no  further  than 
yourself,  I  know ;  but  I  tell  you  that  with  my  own 
eyes — broad  awake — I  saw,  in  the  passage  of  her 
house  one  evening  after  dark,  the  highwayman  who 
robbed  and  wounded  Mr.  Edward  Chester,  and  on 
the  same  night  threatened  me.” 

“And  you  made  no  effort  to  detain  him  ?”  said  Mr. 
Haredale,  quickly. 

“  Sir,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  “she  herself  pre- 
A^ented  me  —  held  me,  with  all  her  strength,  and 
hung  about  me  until  he  had  got  clear  off.”  And 


QUITE  AT  HOME. 


89 


having  gone  so  far,  he  related  circumstantially  all 
that  had  passed  upon  the  night  in  question. 

This  dialogue  was  held  in  a  low  tone  in  the  lock¬ 
smith’s  little  parlor,  into  which  houest  Gabriel  had 
shown  his  visitor  on  his  arrival.  Mr.  Haredale  had 
called  upon  him  to  entreat  his  compauy  to  the  wid¬ 
ow’s,  that  he  might  have  the  assistance  of  his  per¬ 
suasion  and  influence ;  and  out  of  this  circumstance 
the  conversation  had  arisen. 

“I  forbore,”  said  Gabriel,  “from  repeating  one 
word  of  this  to  any  body,  as  it  conld  do  her  no  good 
and  might  do  her  great  harm.  I  thought  and  hoped, 
to  say  the  truth,  that  she  would  come  to  me,  and 
talk  to  me  about  it,  and  tell  me  how  it  was ;  but 
though  I  haye  purposely  put  myself  in  her  way 
more  than  once  or  twice,  she  has  never  touched 
upon  the  subject — except  by  a  look.  And  indeed,” 
said  the  good-natured  lock-smith,  “  there  was  a  good 
deal  in  the  look,  more  than  could  have  been  put  into 
a  great  many  words.  It  said  among  other  matters, 
‘Don’t  ask  me  any  thing’  so  imploringly,  that  I 
didn’t  ask  her  any  thing.  You’ll  think  me  an  old 
fool,  I  know,  sir.  If  it’s  any  relief  to  call  me  one, 
pray  do.” 

“I  am  greatly  disturbed  by  what  you  tell  me,” 
said  Mr.  Haredale,  after  a  silence.  “  What  meaning 
do  you  attach  to  it  ?” 

The  lock- smith  shook  his  head,  and  looked  doubt¬ 
fully  out  of  window  at  the  failing  light. 

“  She  can  not  have  married  again,”  said  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale. 

“  Not  without  our  knowledge  surely,  sir.” 

“  She  may  have  done  so,  in  the  fear  that  it  would 
lead,  if  known,  to  some  objection  or  estrangement. 
Suppose  she  married  incautiously — it  is  not  improb¬ 
able,  for  her  existence  has  been  a  lonely  and  monot¬ 
onous  one  for  many  years — and  the  man  turned  out 
a  ruffian,  she  would  be  auxious  to  screen  him,  and 
yet  would  revolt  from  his  crimes.  This  might  be. 
It  bears  strongly  on  the  whole  drift  of  her  discourse 
yesterday,  and  would  quite  explain  her  conduct. 
Do  you  suppose  Barnaby  is  privy  to  these  circum¬ 
stances  ?” 

“  Quite  impossible  to  say,  sir,”  returned  the  lock¬ 
smith,  shaking  his  head  again  ;  “and  next  to  impos¬ 
sible  to  find  out  from  him.  If  what  you  suppose  is 
really  the  case,  I  tremble  for  the  lad — a  notable  per¬ 
son,  sir,  to  put  to  bad  uses — ” 

“  It  is  not  possible,  Varden,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  in 
a  still  lower  tone  of  voice  than  he  had  spoken  yet, 
“that  we  have  been  blinded  and  deceived  by  this 
woman  from  the  beginning?  It  is  not  possible  that 
this  connection  was  formed  in  her  husband’s  life¬ 
time,  and  led  to  his  and  my  brother’s — ” 

“  Good  God,  sir,”  cried  Gabriel,  interrupting  him, 
“  don’t  entertain  such  dark  thoughts  for  a  moment. 
Five-and-twenty  years  ago,  where  was  there  a  girl 
like  her?  A  gay,  handsome,  laughing,  bright-eyed 
damsel!  Think  what  she  was,  sir.  It  makes  my 
heart  ache  now,  even  now,  though  I’m  an  old  man, 
with  a  woman  for  a  daughter,  to  think  what  she 
was  and  what  she  is.  We  all  change,  but  that’s 
with  Time ;  Time  does  his  work  honestly,  and  I 
don’t  mind  him.  A  fig  for  Time,  sir.  Use  him  well, 
and  he’s  a  hearty  fellow,  and  scorns  to  have  you  at 
a  disadvantage.  But  care  and  suffering  (and  those 


have  changed  her)  are  devils,  sir — secret,  stealthy, 
undermining  devils — who  tread  dowui  the  brightest 
flowers  in  Eden,  and  do  more  havoc  in  a  month  than 
Time  does  in  a  year.  Picture  to  yourself  for  one 
miuute  what  Mary  was  before  they  went  to  work 
with  her  fresh  heart  and  face — do  her  that  justice 
— and  say  whether  such  a  thing  is  possible.” 

“You’re  a  good  fellow,  Varden,”  said  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  “  and  are  quite  right.  I  have  brooded  on  that 
subject  so  long,  that  every  breath  of  suspicion  car¬ 
ries  me  back  to  it.  You  are  quite  right.” 

“It  isn’t,  sir,”  cried  .the  lock-smith  with  brighten¬ 
ed  eyes,  and  sturdy  honest  voice ;  “  it  isn’t  because 
I  courted  her  before  Budge,  aud  failed,  that  I  say 
she  was  too  good  for  him.  She  would  have  been  as 
much  too  good  for  me.  But  she  was  too  good  for 
him ;  he  wasn’t  free  and  frank  enough  for  her.  I 
don’t  reproach  his  memory  with  it,  poor  fellow ;  I 
only  want  to  put  her  before  you  as  she  really  was. 
For  myself,  I’ll  keep  her  old  picture  in  my  mind ; 
and  thinking  of  that,  and  what  has  altered  her,  I’ll 
stand  her  friend,  aud  try  to  win  her  back  to  peace. 
And  damme,  sir,”  cried  Gabriel,  “  with  your  pardon 
for  the  word,  I’d  do  the  same  if  she  had  married  fif¬ 
ty  highwaymen  in  a  twelvemonth ;  and  think  it  in 
the  Protestant  Manual  too,  though  Martha  said  it 
wasn’t,  tooth  and  nail,  till  doomsday!” 

If  the  dark  little  parlor  had  been  filled  with  a 
dense  fog,  which,  clearing  away  in  an  instant,  left  it 
all  radiance  and  brightness,  it  could  not  have  been 
more  suddenly  cheered  than  by  this  outbreak  on  the 
part  of  the  hearty  lock-smith.  In  a  voice  nearly  as 
full  and  round  as  his  own,  Mr.  Haredale  cried  “  Well 
said!”  and  bade  him  come  away  without  more  par¬ 
ley.  The  lock-smith  complied  right  willingly;  and 
both  getting  iuto  a  hackuey-coach  which  was  wait¬ 
ing  at  the  door,  drove  off  straightway. 

They  alighted  at  the  street  corner,  and  dismissing 
their  conveyance,  walked  to  the  house.  To  their 
first  knock  at  the  door  there  was  no  response.  A 
second  met  with  the  like  result.  But  in  answer  to 
the  third,  which  was  of  a  more  vigorous  kind,  the 
parlor  window-sash  was  gently  raised,  and  a  musical 
voice  cried : 

“  Haredale,  my  dear  fellow,  I  am  extremely  glad 
to  see  you.  How  very  much  you  have  improved  in 
your  appearance  since  our  last  meeting!  I  never 
saw  you  looking  better.  How  do  you  do  ?” 

Mr.  Haredale  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  casement 
whence  the  voice  proceeded,  though  there  was  uo 
need  to  do  so,  to  recognize  the  speaker,  and  Mr. 
Chester  waved  his  hand,  and  smiled  a  courteous 
welcome. 

“The  door  will  be  opened  immediately,”  he  said. 
“There  is  nobody  but  a  very  dilapidated  female  to 
perform  such  offices.  You  will  excuse  her  infirmities  ? 
If  she  were  in  a  more  elevated  station  of  society,  she 
would  be  gouty.  Being  but  a  hewer  of  wood  and 
drawer  of  water,  she  is  rheumatic.  My  dear  Hare¬ 
dale,  these  are  natural  class  distinctions,  depend 
upon  it.” 

Hr.  Haredale,  whose  face  resumed  its  lowering 
and  distrustful  look  the  moment  he  heard  the  voice, 
inclined  his  head  stiffly,  and  turned  his  back  upon 
the  speaker. 

“Not  opened. yet,”  said  Mr.  Chester.  “Dear  me! 


90 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


I  hope  the  aged  soul  has  not  caught  her  foot  in  some 
unlucky  cobweb  by  the  way.  She  is  there  at  last ! 
Come  in,  I  beg !” 

Mr.  Haredale  entered,  followed  by  the  lock-smith. 
Turning  with  a  look  of  great  astonishment  to  the  old 
woman  who  had  opened  the  door,  he  inquired  for  Mrs. 
Rudge — for  Barnaby.  They  were  both  gone,  she  re¬ 
plied,  wagging  her  ancient  head,  for  good.  There 
was  a  gentleman  in  the  parlor,  who  perhaps  could 
tell  them  more.  That  was  all  she  knew. 

“Pray,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  presenting  him¬ 
self  before  this  new  tenant,  “  where  is  the  person 
whom  I  came  here  to  see  ?” 

“  My  dear  friend,”  he  returned,  “  I  have  not  the 
least  idea.” 

“Your  trifling  is  ill-timed,”  retorted  the  other  in 
a  suppressed  tone  and  voice,  “and  its  subject  ill- 
chosen.  Reserve  it  for  those  who  are  your  friends, 
and  do  not  expend  it  on  me.  I  lay  no  claim  to  the 
distinction,  and  have  the  self-denial  to  reject  it.” 

“  My  dear,  good  sir,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  you  are 
heated  with  walking.  Sit  down,  I  beg.  Our  friend 
is — ” 

“Is  but  a  plain  honest  man,”  returned  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  “  and  quite  unworthy  of  your  notice.” 

“Gabriel  Varden  by  name,  sir,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith,  bluntly. 

“A  worthy  English  yeoman!”  said  Mr.  Chester. 
“A  most  worthy  yeomau,  of  whom  I  have  frequently 
heard  my  son  Ned — darling  fellow — speak,  and  have 
often  wished  to  see.  Varden,  my  good  friend,  I  am 
glad  to  know  you.  You  wonder  now,”  he  said,  turn- 
iug  languidly  to  Mr.  Haredale,  “to  see  me  here. 
Now,  I  am  sure  you  do.” 

Mr.  Haredale  glanced  at  him — not  fondly  or  ad¬ 
miringly — smiled,  and  held  his  peace. 

“The  mystery  is  solved  in  a  moment,”  said  Mr. 
Chester;  “in  a  moment.  Will  you  step  aside  with 
me  one  instant.  You  remember  our  little  compact 
in  reference  to  Ned,  and  your  dear  niece,  Haredale? 
You  remember  the  list  of  assistants  in  their  innocent 
intrigue?  You  remember  these  two  people  being 
among  them?  My  dear  fellow,  congratulate  your¬ 
self,  and  me.  I  have  bought  them  off.” 

“  You  have  done  what?”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  Bought  them  off,”  returned  his  smiling  friend. 
“  I  have  found  it  necessary  to  take  some  active  steps 
toward  setting  this  boy  and  girl  attachment  quite 
at  rest,  and  have  begun  by  removing  -these  two 
agents.  You  are  surprised  ?  Who  can  withstand 
the  influence  of  a  little  money!  They  wanted  it, 
and  have  been  bought  off.  We  have  nothing  more 
to  fear  from  them.  They  are  gone.” 

“  Gone !”  echoed  Mr.  Haredale.  “  Where  ?” 

“My  dear  fellow — and  you  must  permit  me  to 
say  again,  that  you  never  looked  so  young ;  so  posi¬ 
tively  boyish  as  you  do  to-night — the  Lord  knows 
where;  I  believe  Columbus  himself  wouldn’t  find 
them.  Between  you  and  me  they  have  their  hidden 
reasons,  but  upon  that  point  I  have  pledged  myself 
to  secrecy.  She  appointed  to  see  you  here  to-night 
I  know,  but  found  it  inconvenient,  and  couldn’t 
wait.  Here  is  the  key  of  the  door.  I  am  afraid 
you’ll  find  it  inconveniently  large ;  but  as  the  tene¬ 
ment  is  yours,  your  good  nature  will  excuse  that, 
Haredale,  I  am  certain !” 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

MR.  HAREDALE  stood  in  the  widow’s  parlor 
with  the  door-key  in  his  hand,  gazing  by  turns 
at  Mr.  Chester  and  at  Gabriel  Varden,  and  occasion¬ 
ally  glancing  downward  at  the  key  as  in  the  hope 
that  of  its  own  accord  it  would  unlock  the  mystery ; 
until  Mr.  Chester,  putting  on  his  hat  and  gloves, 
and  sweetly  inquiring  whether  they  were  walking 
in  the  same  direction,  recalled  him  to  himself. 

“No,”  he  said.  “Our  roads  diverge  —  widely,  as 
you  know.  For  the  present,  I  shall  remain  here.” 

“  You  will  be  hipped,  Haredale ;  you  will  be  mis¬ 
erable,  melancholy,  utterly  wretched,”  returned  the 
other.  “  It’s  a  place  of  the  very  last  description  for 
a  man  of  your  temper.  I  know  it  will  make  you 
very  miserable.” 

“  Let  it,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  sitting  down ;  “  and 
thrive  upon  the  thought.  Good-night !” 

Feigning  to  be  wholly  unconscious  of  the  abrupt 
wave  of  the  hand  which  rendered  this  farewell  tan¬ 
tamount  to  a  dismissal,  Mr.  Chester  retorted  with  a 
bland  and  heartfelt  benediction,  and  inquired  of  Ga¬ 
briel  in  what  direction  he  was  going. 

“  Yours,  sir,  would  be  too  much  honor  for  the  like 
of  me,”  replied  the  lock-smith,  hesitating. 

“I  wish  you  to  remaiu  here  a  little  while,  Var¬ 
den,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  without  looking  toward 
them.  “  I  have  a  word  or  two  to  say  to  you.” 

“I  will  not  intrude  upon  your  conference  anoth¬ 
er  moment,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  with  inconceivable 
politeness.  “May  it  be  satisfactory  to  you  both! 
God  bless  you !”  So  saying,  and  bestowing  upon  the 
lock-smith  a  most  refulgent  smile,  he  left  them. 

“A  deplorably  constituted  creature,  that  rugged 
person,”  lie  said,  as  he  walked  along  the  street ;  “  he 
is  an  atrocity  that  carries  its  own  punishment  along 
with  it  —  a  bear  that  gnaws  himself.  And  here  is 
one  of  the  inestimable  advantages  of  having  a  per¬ 
fect  command  over  one’s  inclinations.  I  have  been 
tempted  in  these  two  short  interviews,  to  draw  upon 
that  fellow,  fifty  times.  Five  men  in  six  would  have 
yielded  to  the  impulse.  By  suppressing  mine,  I 
wound  him  deeper  and  more  keenly  than  if  I  were 
the  best  swordsman  in  all  Europe,  and  he  the  worst. 
You  are  the  wise  man’s  very  last  resource,”  he  said, 
tappiug  the  hilt  of  his  weapon ;  “  we  can  but  ap¬ 
peal  to  you  when  all  else  is  said  and  done.  To  come 
to  you  before,  and  thereby  spare  our  adversaries  so 
much,  is  a  barbarian  mode  of  warfare,  quite  unwor¬ 
thy  of  any  man  with  the  remotest  pretensions  to 
delicacy  of  feeling,  or  refinement.” 

He  smiled  so  very  pleasantly  as  he  communed 
with  himself  after  this  manner,  that  a  beggar  was 
emboldened  to  follow  for  alms,  and  to 'dog  his  foot¬ 
steps  for  some  distance.  He  was  gratified  by  the 
circumstance,  feeling  it  complimentary  to  his  power 
of  feature,  and  as  a  reward  suffered  the  man  to  fol¬ 
low  him  until  he  called  a  chair,  when  he  graciously 
dismissed  him  with  a  fervent  blessing. 

“Which  is  as  easy  as  cursing,”  he  wisely  added, 
as  he  took  his  seat,  “  and  more  becoming  to  the 
face. — To  Clerkenwell,  my  good  creatures,  if  you 
please!”  The  chairmen  were  rendered  quite  viva¬ 
cious  by  having  such  a  courteous  burden,  and  to 
Clerkenwell  they  went  at  a  fair  round  trot. 


MR.  CHESTER  AND  MRS.  VARDEN. 


91 


Alighting  at  a  certain  point  he  had  indicated  to 
them  upon  the  road,  and  paying  them  something 
less  than  they  expected  from  a  fare  of  such  gentle 
speech,  he  turned  into  the  street  in  which  the  lock¬ 
smith  dwelt,  and  presently  stood  beneath  the  shadow 
of  the  Golden  Key.  Mr.  Tappertit,  who  was  hard  at 
work  by  lamp -light,  in  a  corner  of  the  workshop, 
remained  unconscious  of  his  presence  until  a  baud 
upon  his  shoulder  made  him  start  and  turn  his  head. 

“  Industry,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  is  the  soul  of  busi¬ 
ness,  and  the  key-stone  of  prosperity.  Mr.  Tapper- 
tit,  I  shall  expect  you  to  invite  me  to  dinner  when 
you  are  Lord  Mayor  of  London.” 

“Sir,”  returned  the  ’prentice,  laying  down  his 
hammer,  and  rubbing  his  nose  on  the  hack  of  a  very 
sooty  hand,  “I  scorn  the  Lord  Mayor  and  every 
thing  that  belongs  to  him.  We  must  have  another 
state  of  society,  sir,  before  you  catch  me  being  Lord 
Mayor.  How  de  do,  sir  ?” 

“  The  better,  Mr.  Tappertit,  for  looking  into  your 
ingenuous  face  once  more.  I  hope  you  are  well.” 

“  I  am  as  well,  sir,”  said  Sim,  standing  up  to  get 
nearer  to  his  ear,  and  whispering  hoarsely,  “  as  any 
man  can  he  under  the  aggrawations  to  which  I  am 
exposed.  My  life’s  a  burden  to  me.  If  it  wasn’t  for 
wengeance,  I’d  play  pitch  and  toss  with  it  on  the 
losing  hazard.” 

“  Is  Mrs.  Yarden  at  home  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester. 

“  Sir,”  returned  Sim,  eying  him  over  with  a  look 
of  concentrated  expression — “  she  is.  Did  you  wish 
to  see  her  ?” 

Mr.  Chester  nodded. 

“  Then  come  this  way,  sir,”  said  Sim,  wiping  his 
face  upon  his  apron.  “Follow  me,  sir —  Would 
you  permit  me  to  whisper  in  your  ear  one  half  a  sec¬ 
ond  ?” 

“  By  all  means.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  raised  himself  on  tiptoe,  applied  his 
lips  to  Mr.  Chester’s  ear,  drew  back  his  head  without 
saying  any  thing,  looked  hard  at  him,  applied  them 
to  his  ear  again,  again  drew  back,  and  finally  whis¬ 
pered — “  The  name  is  Joseph  Willet.  Hush !  I  say 
no  more.” 

Having  said  that  much,  he  beckoned  the  visitor 
with  a  mysterious  aspect  to  follow  him  to  the  parlor 
door,  wljere  he  announced  him  in  the  voice  of  a  gen¬ 
tleman-usher.  “  Mr.  Chester.” 

“And  not  Mr.  Ed’dard,  mind,”  said  Sim,  looking 
into  the  door  again,  and  adding  this  by  way  of  post¬ 
script  in  his  own  person  ;  “  it’s  his  father.” 

“  But  do  not  let  his  father,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  ad¬ 
vancing  hat  in  hand,  as  he  observed  the  effect  of 
this  last  explanatory  announcement,  “  do  not  let  his 
father  be  any  check  or  restraint  on  your  domestic 
occupations,  Miss  Varden.” 

“  Oh  !  Now !  There !  An’t  I  always  a-saying  it !” 
exclaimed  Miggs,  clapping  her  hands.  “If  he  an’t 
been  and  took  missis  for  her  own  daughter.  Well, 
she  do  look  like  it,  that  she  do.  Only  think  of  that, 
mim !” 

“  Is  it  possible,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  in  his  softest 
tones,  “that  this  is  Mrs.  Yarden!  I  am  amazed. 
That  is  not  your  daughter,  Mrs.  Yarden?  No,  no. 
Your  sister.” 

“My  daughter,  indeed,  sir,”  returned  Mrs.  V., 
blushing  with  great  juvenility. 


“Ah,  Mrs.  Yarden  !”  cried  the  visitor.  “Ah,  ma’am 
— humanity  is  indeed  a  happy  lot,  when  we  can  re¬ 
peat  ourselves  in  others,  and  still  be  young  as  they. 
You  must  allow  me  to  salute  you — the  custom  of 
the  country,  my  dear  madam — your  daughter  too.” 

Dolly  showed  some  reluctance  to  perform  this  cer¬ 
emony,  but  was  sharply  reproved  by  Mrs.  Varden, 
who  insisted  on  her  undergoing  it  that  minute. 
For  pride,  she  said  with  great  severity,  was  one  of 
the  seven  deadly  sins,  and  humility  and  lowliness 
of  heart  were  virtues.  Wherefore  she  desired  that 
Dolly  would  be  kissed  immediately,  on  pain  of  her 
just  displeasure ;  at  the  same  time  giving  her  to  un¬ 
derstand  that  whatever  she  saw  her  mother  do,  she 
might  safely  do  herself,  without  being  at  the  trouble 
of  any  reasoning  or  reflection  on  the  subject — which, 
indeed,  was  offensive  and  undutiful,  and  in  direct 
contravention  of  the  church  catechism. 

Thus  admonished,  Dolly  complied,  though  by  no 
means  willingly ;  for  there  was  a  broad,  bold  look  of 
admiration  in  Mr.  Chester’s  face,  refined  and  }3olish- 
ed  though  it  sought  to  be,  which  distressed  her  very 
much.  As  she  stood  with  downcast  eyes,  not  liking 
to  look  up  and  meet  his,  he  gazed  upon  her  with  an 
approving  air,  and  then  turned  to  her  mother. 

“My  friend  Gabriel  (whose  acquaintance  I  only 
made  this  very  evening)  should  be  a  happy  man, 
Mrs.  Varden.” 

“  Ah !”  sighed  Mrs.  V.,  shaking  her  head. 

“  Ah  !”  echoed  Miggs. 

“  Is  that  the  case  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  compassion¬ 
ately.  “  Dear  me !” 

“  Master  has  no  intentions,  sir,”  murmured  Miggs, 
as  she  sidled  up  to  him,  “  but  to  be  as  grateful  as  his 
natur  will  let  him,  for  every  think  he  owns  which  it 
is  in  his  powers  to  appreciate.  But  we  never,  sir — ” 
said  Miggs,  looking  sideways  at  Mrs.  Yarden,  and 
interlarding  her  discourse  with  a  sigh — “  we  never 
know  the  full  value  of  some  wines  aud  fig-trees  till 
we  lose  ’em.  So  much  the  worse,  sir,  for  them  as 
has  the  slighting  of  ’em  on  their  consciences  when 
they’re  gone  to  be  in  full  blow  elsewhere.”  And  Miss 
Miggs  cast  up  her  eyes  to  signify  where  that  might 
be. 

As  Mrs.  Yarden  distinctly  heard,  and  was  intend¬ 
ed  to  hear,  all  that  Miggs  said,  and  as  these  words 
appeared  to  convey  in  metaphorical  terms  a  presage 
or  foreboding  that  she  would  at  some  early  period 
droop  beneath  her  trials  and  take  an  easy  flight  to¬ 
ward  the  stars,  she  immediately  began  to  languish, 
and  taking  a  volume  of  the  Manual  from  a  neighbor¬ 
ing  table, 'leaned  her  arm  upon  it  as  though  she  were 
Hope  and  that  her  Anchor.  Mr.  Chester  perceiving 
this,  and  seeing  how  the  volume  was  lettered  on  the 
back,  took  it  gently  from  her  hand,  and  turned  the 
fluttering- leaves. 

“  My  favorite  book,  dear  madam.  How  often,  how 
very  often  in  his  early  life — before  he  can  remember  ” 
—  (this  clause  was  strictly  true)  “have  I  deduced 
little  easy  moral  lessons  from  its  pages,  for  my  dear 
son  Ned !  You  know  Ned  ?” 

Mrs.  Varden  had  that  honor,  and  a  fine  affable 
young  gentleman  he  was. 

“  You’re  a  mother,  Mrs.  Yarden,”  said  Mr.  Chester, 
taking  a  pinch  of  snuff,  “and  you  know  what  I, 
as  a  father,  feel,  when  he  is  praised.  He  gives  me 


92 


BAB  NAB  Y  BUDGE. 


some  uneasiness — much  uneasiness — he’s  of  a  rov¬ 
ing  nature,  ma’am  —  from  flower  to  flower  —  from 
sweet  to  sweet — hut  his  is  the  butterfly  time  of  life, 
and  we  must  not  be  hard  upon  such  trifling.” 

He  glanced  at  Dolly.  She  was  attending  evident¬ 
ly  to  what  he  said.  Just  what  he  desired! 

“  The  only  thing  I  object  to  in  this  little  trait  of 
Ned’s,  is,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  — and  the  mention  of 
his  name  reminds  me,  by-the-way,  that  I  am  about 
to  beg  the  favor  of  a  minute’s  talk  with  you  alone — 
the  only  thing  I  object  to  in  it  is,  that  it  does  par¬ 
take  of  insincerity.  Now,  however  I  may  attempt 
to  disguise  the  fact  from  myself  in  my  affection  for 
Ned,  still  I  always  revert  to  this — that  if  we  are  not 
sincere,  we  are  nothing.  Nothing  uj)on  earth.  Let 
us  be  sincere,  my  dear  madam — ” 

“ — And  Protestant,”  murmured  Mrs.  Varden. 

“ — And  Protestant  above  all  things.  Let  us  be 
sincere  and  Protestant,  strictly  moral,  strictly  just 
(though  always  with  a  leaning  toward  mercy),  strict¬ 
ly  honest,  and  strictly  true,  and  we  gain — it  is  a 
slight  point,  certainly,  but  still  it  is  something  tan¬ 
gible  ;  we  throw  up  a  groundwork  and  foundation, 
so  to  speak,  of  goodness,  on  which  we  may  afterward 
erect  some  worthy  superstructure.” 

Now,  to  be  sure,  Mrs.  Varden  thought,  here  is  a 
perfect  character.  Here  is  a  meek,  righteous,  thor¬ 
ough-going  Christian,  who,  having  mastered  all  these 
qualities,  so  difficult  of  attainment ;  who,  having 
dropped  a  pinch  of  salt  on  the  tails  of  all  the  car¬ 
dinal  virtues,  and  caught  them  every  one;  makes 
light  of  their  possession,  and  pants  for  more  morali¬ 
ty.  For  the  good  woman  never  doubted  (as  many 
good  men  and  women  never  do),  that  this  slighting 
kind  of  profession,  this  setting  so  little  store  by  great 
matters,  this  seeming  to  say  “  I  am  not  proud,  I  am 
what  you  hear,  but  I  consider  myself  no  better  than 
other  people;  let  us  change  the  subject,  pray” — 
was  perfectly  genuine  and  true.  He  so  contrived  it, 
and  said  it  in  that  way  that  it  appeared  to  have  been 
forced  from  him,  and  its  effect  was  marvelous. 

Aware  of  the  impression  he  had  made — few  men 
were  quicker  than  he  at  such  discoveries — Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter  followed  up  the  blow  by  propounding  certain 
virtuous  maxims,  somewhat  vague  and  general  in 
their  nature,  doubtless,  and  occasionally  partaking 
of  the  character  of  truisms,  worn  a  little  out  at  el¬ 
bow,  but  delivered  in  so  charming  a  voice  and  with 
such  uncommon  serenity  and  peace  of  mind,  that 
they  answered  as  well  as  the  best.  Nor  is  this  to  be 
wondered  at ;  for  as  hollow  vessels  produce  a  far 
more  musical  sound  in  falling  than  those  which  are 
substantial,  so  it  will  oftentimes  be  found  that  sen¬ 
timents  which  have  nothing  in  them  make  the  loud¬ 
est  ringing  in  the  world,  and  are  the  most  relished. 

Mr.  Chester,  with  the  volume  gently  extended  in 
one  hand,  and  with  the  other  planted  lightly  on  his 
breast,  talked  to  them  in  the  most  delicious  manner 
possible ;  and  quite  enchanted  all  his  hearers,  not¬ 
withstanding  their  conflicting  interests  and  thoughts. 
Even  Dolly,  who,  between  his  keen  regards  and  her 
eying  over  by  Mr.  Tappertit,  was  put  quite  out  of 
countenance,  could  not  help  owning  within  herself 
that  he  was  the  sweetest-spoken  gentleman  she  had 
ever  seen.  Even  Miss  Miggs,  who  was  divided  be¬ 
tween  admiration  of  Mr.  Chester  and  a  mortal  jeal¬ 


ousy  of  her  young  mistress,  had  sufficient  leisure  to 
be  propitiated.  Even  Mr.  Tappertit,  though  occu¬ 
pied  as  we  have  seen  in  gazing  at  his  heart’s  delight, 
could  not  wholly  divert  his  thoughts  from  the  voice 
of  the  other  charmer.  Mrs.  Varden,  to  her  own  pri¬ 
vate  thinking,  had  never  been  so  improved  in  all  her 
life ;  and  when  Mr.  Chester,  rising  and  craving  per¬ 
mission  to  speak  with  her  apart,  took  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  at  arms-length  up  stairs  to  the  best 
sitting-room,  she  almost  deemed  him  something  more 
than  human. 

“  Dear  madam,”  he  said,  pressing  her  hand  deli¬ 
cately  to  his  lips ;  “  be  seated.” 

Mrs.  Varden  palled  up  quite  a  courtly  air,  and  be¬ 
came  seated. 

“  You  guess  my  object  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester,  drawing 
a  chair  toward  her.  “You  divine  my  purpose?  I 
am  an  affectionate  parent,  my  dear  Mrs.  Varden.” 

“  That  I  am  sure  you  are,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  V. 

“  Thank  you,”  returned  Mr.  Chester,  tapping  his 
snuff-box  lid.  “Heavy  moral  responsibilities  rest 
with  parents,  Mrs.  Varden.” 

Mrs.  Varden  slightly  raised  her  hands,  shook  her 
head,  and  looked  at  the  ground  as  though  she  saw 
straight  through  the  globe,  out  at  the  other  end,  and 
into  the  immensity  of  space  beyond. 

“  I  may  confide  in  you,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  with¬ 
out  reserve.  I  love  my  son,  ma’am,  dearly;  and 
loving  him  as  I  do,  I  would  save  him  from  working 
certain  misery.  You  know  of  his  attachment  to  Miss 
Haredale.  You  have  abetted  him  in  it,  and  very 
kind  of  you  it  was  to  do  so.  I  am  deeply  obliged  to 
you — most  deeply  obliged  to  you — for  your  interest 
in  his  behalf ;  but  my  dear  ma’am,  it  is  a  mistaken 
one,  I  do  assure  you.” 

Mrs.  Varden  stammered  that  she  was  sorry — 

“  Sorry,  my  dear  ma’am,”  he  interposed.  “  Never 
be  sorry  for  what  is  so  very  amiable,  so  very  good  in 
intention,  so  perfectly  like  yourself.  But  there  are 
grave  and  weighty  reasons,  pressing  family  consider¬ 
ations,  and  apart  even  from  these,  points  of  religious 
difference,  which  interpose  themselves,  and  render 
their  union  impossible;  utterly  im-possible.  I  should 
have  mentioned  these  circumstances  to  your  hus¬ 
band  ;  but  he  has — you  will  excuse  my  saying  this 
so  freely — he  has  not  your  quickness  of  apprehen¬ 
sion  or  depth  of  moral  sense.  What  an  extremely 
airy  house  this  is,  and  how  beautifully  kept!  For 
one  like  myself — a  widower  so  long — these  tokens 
of  female  care  and  superintendence  have  inexpressi¬ 
ble  charms.” 

Mrs.  Varden  began  to  think  (she  scarcely  knew 
why)  that  the  young  Mr.  Chester  must  be  in  the 
wrong  and  the  old  Mr.  Chester  must  be  in  the  right. 

“  My  son  Ned,”  resumed  her  tempter  with  his  ut¬ 
most  winning  air,  “  has  had,  I  am  told,  your  lovely 
daughter’s  aid,  and  your  open-hearted  husband’s.” 

“ — Much  more  than  mine,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Varden ; 
“  a  great  deal  more.  I  have  often  had  my  doubts. 
It’s  a—” 

“A  bad  example,”  suggested  Mr.  Chester.  “  It  is. 
No  doubt  it  is.  Your  daughter  is  at  that  age  when 
to  set  before  her  an  encouragement  for  young  per¬ 
sons  to  rebel  against  their  parents  on  this  most  im¬ 
portant  point,  is  particularly  injudicious.  You  are 
quite  right.  I  ought  to  have  thought  of  that  my- 


A  MERE  MATTER  OF  HEART. 


93 


self,  but  it  escaped  me,  I  confess — so  far  superior 
are  your  sex  to  ours,  dear  madam,  in  point  of  pene¬ 
tration  and  sagacity.” 

Mrs.  Varden  looked  as  wise  as  if  she  had  really 
said  something  to  deserve  this  compliment — firmly 
believed  she  had,  in  short — and  her  faith  in  her  own 
shrewdness  increased  considerably. 

“My  dear  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “you  em¬ 
bolden  me  to  be  plain  with  you.  My  son  and  I  are 
at  variance  on  this  point.  The  young  lady  and  her 
natural  guardian  differ  upon  it,  also.  And  the  clos¬ 
ing  point  is,  that  my  son  is  bound  by  his  duty  to 
me,  by  his  honor,  by  every  solemn  tie  and  obliga¬ 
tion,  to  marry  some  one  else.” 

“Engaged  to  marry  another  lady!”  quoth  Mrs. 
Varden,  holding  up  her  hands. 

“  My  dear  madam,  brought  up,  educated,  and 
trained,  expressly  for  that  purpose.  Expressly  for 
that  purpose.  Miss  Haredale,  I  am  told,  is  a  very 
charming  creature.” 

“  I  am  her  foster-mother,  and  should  know — the 
best  young  lady  in  the  world,”  said  Mrs.  Varden. 

“  I  have  not  the  smallest  doubt  of  it.  I  am  sure 
she  is.  And  you,  who  have  stood  in  that  tender  re¬ 
lation  toward  her,  are  bound  to  consult  her  happi¬ 
ness.  Now,  can  I — as  I  have  said  to  Haredale,  who 
quite  agrees — can  I  possibly  stand  by,  and  suffer  her 
to  throw  herself  away  (although  she  is  of  a  Catholic 
family),  upon  a  young  fellow  who,  as  yet,  has  no 
heart  at  all?  It  is  no  imputation  upon  him  to  say 
he  has  not,  because  young  men  who  have  plunged 
deeply  into  the  frivolities  and  conventionalities  of 
society,  very  seldom  have.  Their  hearts  never  grow, 
my  dear  ma’am,  till  after  thirty.  I  don’t  believe, 
no,  I  do  not  believe,  that  I  had  any  heart  myself 
when  I  was  Ned’s  age.” 

“Oh  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  “I  think  you  must 
have  had.  It’s  impossible  that  you,  who  have  so 
much  now,  can  ever  have  been  without  any.” 

“  I  hope,”  he  answered,  shrugging  his  shoulders 
meekly,  “I  have  a  little;  I  hope,  a  very  little  — 
Heaven  knows !  But  to  return  to  Ned ;  I  have  no 
doubt  you  thought,  and  therefore  interfered  benev¬ 
olently  in  his  behalf,  that  I  objected  to  Miss  Hare¬ 
dale.  How  very  natural !  My  dear  madam,  I  ob¬ 
ject  to  him — to  him — emphatically  to  Ned  himself.” 

Mrs.  Varden  was  perfectly  aghast  at  the  disclosure. 

“  He  has,  if  he  honorably  fulfills  this  solemn  obli¬ 
gation  of  which  I  have  told  you — and  he  must  be 
honorable,  dear  Mrs.  Varden,  or  he  is  no  son  of  mine 
— a  fortune  within  his  reach.  He  is  of  most  expen¬ 
sive,  ruinously  expensive  habits ;  and  if,  in  a  mo¬ 
ment  of  caprice  and  willfulness,  he  were  to  marry 
this  young  lady,  and  so  deprive  himself  of  the  means 
of  gratifying  the  tastes  to  which  he  had  been  so  long 
accustomed,  he  would — my  dear  madam,  he  would 
break  the  gentle  creature’s  heart.  Mrs.  Varden,  my 
good  lady,  my  dear  soul,  I  put  it  to  you — is  such  a 
sacrifice  to  be  endured  ?  Is  the  female  heart  a  thing 
to  be  trifled  with  in  this  way  ?  Ask  your  own,  my 
dear  madam.  Ask  your  own,  I  beseech  you.” 

“Truly,”  thought  Mrs.  Varden,  “this  gentleman 
is  a  saint.  But,”  she  added  aloud,  and  not  unnatu¬ 
rally,  “if  you  take  Miss  Emma’s  lover  away,  sir, 
what  becomes  of  the  poor  thing’s  heart  then?” 

“The  very  point,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  not  at  all 


abashed,  “to  which  I  wished  to  lead  you.  A  mar¬ 
riage  with  my  son,  whom  I  should  be  compelled  to 
disown,  would  be  followed  by  years  of  misery ;  they 
would  be  separated,  my  dear  madam,  in  a  twelve- 
month.  To  break  off  this  attachment,  which  is  more 
fancied  than  real,  as  you  and  I  know  very  well,  will 
cost  the  dear  girl  but  a  few  tears,  and  she  is  happy 
again.  Take  the  case  of  your  own  daughter,  the 
young  lady  down  stairs,  who  is  your  breathing  im¬ 
age” — Mrs.  Varden  coughed  and  simpered — “there 
is  a  young  man  (I  am  sorry  to  say,  a  dissolute  fel¬ 
low,  of  very  indifferent  character),  of  whom  I  have 
heard  Ned  speak — Bullet  was  it — Pullet — Mullet — ” 

“There  is  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Joseph 
Willet,  sir,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  folding  her  hands 
loftily. 

“  That’s  he,”  cried  Mr.  Chester.  “  Suppose  this 
Joseph  Willet  now  were  to  aspire  to  the  affections 
of  your  charming  daughter,  aud  were  to  engage 
them.” 

“  It  would  be  like  his  impudence,”  interposed  Mrs. 
Varden,  bridling,  “  to  dare  to  think  of  such  a  thing !” 

“My  dear  madam,  that’s  the  whole  case.  I  know 
it  would  be  like  his  impudence.  It  is  like  Ned’s 
impudence  to  do  as  he  has  done ;  but  you  would  not 
on  that  account,  or  because  of  a  few  tears  from  your 
beautiful  daughter,  refrain  from  checking  their  in¬ 
clinations  in  their  birth.  I  meant  to  have  reasoned 
thus  with  your  husband  when  I  saw  him  at  Mrs. 
Rudge’s  this  evening — ” 

“  My  husband,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  interposing  with 
emotion,  “  would  be  a  great  deal  better  at  home  than 
going  to  Mrs.  Rudge’s  so  often.  I  don’t  know  what 
he  does  there.  I  don’t  see  what  occasion  he  has  to 
busy  himself  in  her  affairs  at  all,  sir.” 

“  If  I  don’t  appear  to  express  my  concurrence  in 
those  last  sentiments  of  yours,”  returned  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter,  “  quite  so  strongly  as  you  might  desire,  it  is  be¬ 
cause  his  being  there,  my  dear  madam,  and  not  prov¬ 
ing  conversational,  led  me  hither,  and  procured  me 
the  happiness  of  this  interview  with  one,  in  whom 
the  whole  management,  conduct,  and  prosperity  of 
her  family  are  centred,  I  perceive.” 

With  that  he  took  Mrs.  Varden’s  hand  again,  and 
having  pressed  it  to  his  lips  with  the  high-flown 
gallantry  of  the  day — a  little  burlesqued  to  render 
it  the  more  striking  in  the  good  lady’s  unaccustom¬ 
ed  eyes — proceeded  in  the  same  strain  of  mingled 
sophistry,  cajolery,  and  flattery,  to  entreat  that  her 
utmost  influence  might  be  exerted  to  restrain  her 
husband  and  daughter  from  any  further  promotion 
of  Edward’s  suit  to  Miss  Haredale,  and  from  aiding 
or  abetting  either  party  in  any  way.  Mrs.  Varden 
was  but  a  woman,  and  had  her  share  of  vanity,  ob¬ 
stinacy,  and  love  of  power.  She  entered  into  a  se¬ 
cret  treaty  of  alliance,. offensive  and  defensive,  with 
her  insinuating  visitor;  aud  really  did  believe,  as 
many  others  would  have  done  who  saw  and  heard 
him,  that  in  so  doing  she  furthered  the  ends  of 
truth,  justice,  and  morality,  in  a  very  uncommon  de¬ 
gree. 

Overjoyed  by  the  success  of  his  negotiation,  and 
mightily  amused  within  himself,  Mr.  Chester  conduct¬ 
ed  her  down  stairs  in  the  same  state  as  before;  aud 
having  repeated  the  previous  ceremony  of  saluta¬ 
tion,  which  also  as  before  comprehended  Dolly,  took 


94 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


his  leave ;  first  completing  the  conquest  of  Miss 
Miggs’s  heart,  by  inquiring  if  “this  young  lady” 
would  light  him  to  the  door. 

“  Oh,  mini,”  said  Miggs,  returning  with  the  can¬ 
dle.  “  Oh  gracious  me,  mim,  there’s  a  gentleman ! 
Was  there  ever  such  an  angel  to  talk  as  he  is — and 
such  a  sweet-looking  man !  So  upright  and  noble, 
that  he  seems  to  despise  the  very  ground  he  walks 
on!  and  yet  so  mild  and  condescending,  that  he 
seems  to  say  1  but  I  will  take  notice  on  it  too.’  And 
to  think  of  his  taking  you  for  Miss  Dolly,  and  Miss 
Dolly  for  your  sister —  Oh,  my  goodness  me,  if  I 
was  master  wouldn’t  I  he  jealous  of  him !” 

Mrs.  Varden  reproved  her  handmaid  for  this  vain- 
speaking  ;  hut  very  gently  and  mildly — quite  smil¬ 
ingly  indeed — remarking  that  she  was  a  foolish,  gid¬ 
dy,  light-headed  girl,  whose  spirits  carried  her  be¬ 
yond  all  bounds,  and  who  didn’t  mean  half  she  said, 
or  she  would  he  quite  angry  with  her. 

“  For  my  part,”  said  Dolly,  in  a  thoughtful  man¬ 
ner,  “  I  half  believe  Mr.  Chester  is  something  like 
Miggs  in  that  respect.  For  all  his  politeness  and 
pleasant  speaking,  I  am  pretty  sure  he  was  making 
game  of  us,  more  than  once.” 

“  If  you  venture  to  say  such  a  thing  again,  and  to 
speak  ill  of  people  behind  their  hacks  in  my  pres¬ 
ence,  miss,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  “I  shall  insist  upon 
your  taking  a  candle  and  going  to  bed  directly. 
How  dare  you,  Dolly  ?  I’m  astonished  at  you.  The 
rudeness  of  your  whole  behavior  this  evening  has 
been  disgraceful.  Did  any  body  ever  hear,”  cried 
the  enraged  matron,  bursting  into  tears,  “  of  a  daugh¬ 
ter  telling  her  own  mother  she  has  been  made  game 
of!” 

What  a  very  uncertain  temper  Mrs.  Varden’s  was ! 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

EPAIRING  to  a  noted  coffee-house  in  Covent 
Garden  when  he  left  the  lock-smith’s,  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter  sat  long  over  a  late  dinner,  entertaining  himself 
exceedingly  with  the  whimsical  recollection  of  his 
recent  proceedings,  and  congratulating  himself  very 
much  on  his  great  cleverness.  Influenced  by  these 
thoughts,  his  face  wore  an  expression  so  benign  and 
tranquil,  that  the  waiter  in  immediate  attendance 
upon  him  felt  he  could  almost  have  died  in  his  de¬ 
fense,  and  settled  in  his  own  mind  (until  the  receipt 
of  the  bill,  and  a  very  small  fee  for  very  great  trou¬ 
ble  disabused  it  of  the  idea)  that  such  an  apostolic 
customer  was  worth  half  a  dozen  of  the  ordinary 
run  of  visitors,  at  least. 

A  visit  to  the  gaming-table — not  as  a  heated,  anx¬ 
ious  venturer,  but  one  whom  it  was  quite  a  treat  to 
see  staking  his  two  or  three  pieces  in  deference  to 
the  follies  of  society,  and  smiling  with  equal  benev¬ 
olence  on  winners  and  losers — made  it  late  before 
he  reached  home.  It  was  his  custom  to  bid  his 
servant  go  to  bed  at  his  own  time  unless  he  had  or¬ 
ders  to  the  contrary,  and  to  leave  a  candle  on  the 
common  stair.  There  was  a  lamp  on  the  landing 
by  which  he  could  always  light  it  when  he  came 
home  late,  and  having  a  key  of  the  door  about  him 
he  could  enter  and  go  to  bed  at  his  pleasure. 


He  opened  the  glass  of  the  dull  lamp,  whose  wick, 
burned  up  and  swollen  like  a  drunkard’s  nose,  came 
dying  off  in  little  carbuncles  at  the  candle’s  touch, 
and  scattering  hot  sparks  about,  rendered  it  matter 
of  some  difficulty  to  kindle  the  lazy  taper ;  when  a 
noise,  as  of  a  man  snoring  deeply  some  steps  high¬ 
er  up,  caused  him  to  pause  and  listen.  It  was  the 
heavy  breathing  of  a  sleeper,  close  at  hand.  Some 
fellow  had  lain  down  on  the  open  staircase,  and  was 
slumbering  soundly.  Having  lighted  the  candle  at 
length  and  opened  his  own  door,  he  softly  ascended, 
holding  the  taper  high  above  his  head,  and  peering 
cautiously  about ;  curious  to  see  what  kind  of  man 
had  chosen  so  comfortless  a  shelter  for  his  lodging. 

With  his  head  upon  the  landing  and  his  great 
limbs  flung  over  half  a  dozen  stairs,  as  carelessly  as 
though  he  were  a  dead  man  whom  drunken  bearers 
had  thrown  down  by  chance,  there  lay  Hugh,  face 
uppermost,  his  long  hair  drooping  like  some  wild 
weed  upon  his  wooden  pillow,  and  his  huge  chest 
heaving  with  the  sounds  which  so  unwontedly  dis¬ 
turbed  the  place  and  hour. 

He  who  came  upon  him  so  unexpectedly  was 
about  to  break  his  rest  by  thrusting  him  with  his 
foot,  when,  glancing  at  his  upturned  face,  he  arrested 
himself  in  the  very  action,  and  stooping  down  and 
shading  the  candle  with  his  hand,  examined  his  fea¬ 
tures  closely.  Close  as  his  first  inspection  was,  it 
did  not  suffice,  for  he  passed  the  light,  still  carefully 
shaded  as  before,  across  and  across  his  face,  and  yet 
observed  him  with  a  searching  eye. 

While  he  was  thus  engaged,  the  sleeper,  without 
any  starting  or  turning  round,  awoke.  There  was  a 
kind  of  fascination  in  meeting  his  steady  gaze  so 
suddenly,  wffiich  took  from  the  other  the  presence 
of  mind  to  withdraw  his  eyes,  and  forced  him,  as  it 
were,  to  meet  his  look.  So  they  remained  staring  at 
each  other,  until  Mr.  Chester  at  last  broke  silence, 
and  asked  him  in  a  low  voice,  why  he  lay  sleeping 
there. 

“  I  thought,”  said  Hugh,  struggling  into  a  sitting 
posture  and  gazing  at  him  intently  still,  “  that  you 
were  a  part  of  my  dream.  It  was  a  curious  one.  I 
hope  it  may  never  come  true,  master.” 

“  What  makes  you  shiver  ?” 

“The — the  cold,  I  suppose,”  he  growled,  as  he 
shook  himself  and  rose.  “I  hardly  know  where  I 
am  yet.” 

“  Do  you  know  me  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester. 

“Ay,  I  know  you,”  he  answered.  “I  was  dream¬ 
ing  of  you — we’re  not  where  I  thought  we  were. 
That’s  a  comfort.” 

He  looked  round  him  as  he  spoke,  and  in  particu¬ 
lar  looked  above  his  head,  as  though  he  half  expect¬ 
ed  to  be  standiug  under  some  object  which  had  had 
existence  in  his  dream.  Then  he  rubbed  his  eyes 
and  shook  himself  again,  and  followed  his  conductor 
into  his  own  rooms. 

Mr.  Chester  lighted  the  candles  which  stood  upon 
his  dressing-table,  and  wheeling  an  easy -chair  to¬ 
ward  the  fire,  which  was  yet  burning,  stirred  up  a 
cheerful  blaze,  sat  down  before  it,  and  bade  his  un¬ 
couth  visitor  “  Come  here,”  and  draw  his  boots  off. 

“  You  have  been  drinking  again,  my  fine  fellow,” 
he  said,  as  Hugh  went  down  on  one  knee,  and  did  as 
he  was  told. 


PATE  ON  AND  CLIENT. 


95 


“As  I’m  alive,  master,  I’ve  walked  the  twelve  long 
miles,  and  waited  here  I  don’t  know  how  long,  and 
had  no  drink  between  my  lips  since  dinner-time  at 
noon.” 

“And  can  you  do  nothing  better,  my  pleasant 
friend,  then  fall  asleep,  and  shake  the  very  building 
with  your  snores  ?”  said  Mr.  Chester.  “  Can’t  you 
dream  in  your  straw  at  home,  dull  dog  as  you  are, 
that  you  need  come  here  to  do  it  ?  Reach  me  these 
slippers,  and  tread  softly.” 

Hugh  obeyed  in  silence. 

“And  harkee,  my  dear  young  gentleman,”  said 
Mr.  Chester,  as  he  put  them  on,  “  the  next  time  you 
dream,  don’t  let  it  be  of  me,  but  of  some  dog  or  horse 
with  whom  you  are  better  acquainted.  Fill  the 
glass  once — you’ll  find  it  and  the  bottle  in  the  same 
place — and  empty  it  to  keep  yourself  awake.” 

Hugh  obeyed  again — even  more  zealously — and 
having  done  so,  presented  himself  before  his  patron. 

“  Now,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “  what  do  you  want  with 
me  ?” 

“  There  was  news  to-day,”  returned  Hugh.  “  Your 
son  was  at  our  house  —  came  down  on  horseback. 
He  tried  to  see  the  young  woman,  but  couldn’t  get 
sight  of  her.  He  left  some  letter  or  some  message 
which  our  Joe  had  charge  of,  but  he  and  the  old  one 
quarreled  about  it  when  your  son  had  gone,  and  the 
old  one  wouldn’t  let  it  be  delivered.  He  says  (that’s 
the  old  one  does)  that  none  of  his  people  shall  inter¬ 
fere  and  get  him  into  trouble.  He’s  a  landlord,  he 
says,  and  lives  on  every  body’s  custom.” 

“He’s  a  jewel,”  smiled  Mr.  Chester,  “and  the  bet¬ 
ter  for  being  a  dull  one.  Well  ?” 

“  Yarden’s  daughter — that’s  the  girl  I  kissed — ” 

“ — And  stole  the  bracelet  from  upon  the  king’s 
highway,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  composedly.  “Yes; 
what  of  her  ?” 

“  She  wrote  a  note  at  our  house  to  the  young 
woman,  saying  she  lost  the  letter  I  brought  to  you, 
and  you  burned.  Our  Joe  was  to  carry  it,  but  the 
old  one  kept  him  at  home  all  next  day,  on  purpose 
that  he  shouldn’t.  Next  morning  he  gave  it  to  me 
to  take ;  and  here  it  is.” 

“  You  didn’t  deliver  it  then,  my  good  friend  ?”  said 
Mr.  Chester,  twirling  Dolly’s  note  between  his  finger 
and  thumb,  and  feigning  to  be  surprised. 

“  I  supposed  you’d  want  to  have  it,”  retorted  Hugh. 
“  Burn  one,  burn  all,  I  thought.” 

“  My  devil-may-care  acquaintance,”  said  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter — “  really  if  you  do  not  draw  some  nicer  distinc¬ 
tions,  your  career  will  be  cut  short  with  most  sur¬ 
prising  suddenness.  Don’t  you  know  that  the  letter 
you  brought  to  me  was  directed  to  my  son,  who  re¬ 
sides  in  this  very  place?  And  can  you  descry  no 
difference  between  his  letters  and  those  addressed  to 
other  people  ?” 

“  If  you  don’t  want  it,”  said  Hugh,  disconcerted 
by  this  reproof,  for  he  had  expected  high  praise, 
“  give  it  me  back,  and  I’ll  deliver  it.  I  don’t  know 
how  to  please  you,  master.” 

“  I  shall  deliver  it,”  returned  his  patron,  putting 
it  away  after  a  moment’s  consideration,  “myself. 
Does  the  young  lady  walk  out,  on  fine  mornings  ?” 

“  Mostly — about  noon  is  her  usual  time.” 

“Alone  ?” 

“  Yes,  alone.” 


“  Where  ?” 

“In  the  grounds  before  the  house.  Them  that 
the  footpath  crosses.” 

“  If  the  weather  should  be  fine,  I  may  throw  my¬ 
self  in  her  way  to-morrow,  perhaps,”  said  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter,  as  coolly  as  if  she  were  one  of  his  ordinary  ac¬ 
quaintance.  “  Mr.  Hugh,  if  I  should  ride  up  to  the 
Maypole  door,  you  will  do  me  the  favor  only  to  have 
seen  me  once.  You  must  suppress  your  gratitude, 
and  endeavor  to  forget  my  forbearance  in  the  mat¬ 
ter  of  the  bracelet.  It  is  natural  it  should  break 
out,  and  it  does  you  honor ;  but  when  other  folks 
are  by,  you  must,  for  your  own  sake  and  safety,  be 
as  like  your  usual  self  as  though  you  owed  me  no 
obligation  whatever,  and  had  never  stood  Avithin 
these  walls.  You  comprehend  me  ?” 

Hugh  understood  him  perfectly.  After  a  pause 
he  muttered  that  he  hoped  his  patron  would  involve 
him  in  no  trouble  about  this  last  letter ;  for  he  had 
kept  it  back  solely  with  the  view  of  pleasing  him. 
He  was  continuing  in  this  strain,  when  Mr.  Chester 
with  a  most  beneficent  and  patronizing  air  cut  him 
short  by  saying : 

“My  good  fellow,  you  have  my  promise,  my  word, 
my  sealed  bond  (for  a  verbal  pledge  with  me  is  quite 
as  good),  that  I  will  always  protect  you  so  long  as 
you  deserve  it.  Now,  do  set  your  mind  at  rest. 
Keep  it  at  ease,  I  beg  of  you.  When  a  man  puts 
himself  in  my  power  so  thoroughly  as  you  have 
done,  I  really  feel  as  though  he  had  a  kind  of  claim 
upon  me.  I  am  more  disposed  to  mercy  and  for¬ 
bearance  under  such  circumstances  than  I  can  tell 
you,  Hugh.  Do  look  upon  me  as  your  protector, 
and  rest  assured,  I  entreat  you,  that  on  the  subject 
of  that  indiscretion  you  may  preserve,  as  long  as 
you  and  I  are  friends,  the  lightest  heart  that  ever 
beat  within  a  human  breast.  Fill  that  glass  once 
more  to  cheer  you  on  your  road  homeward— I  am 
really  quite  ashamed  to  think  how  far  you  have  to 
go — and  then  God  bless  you  for  the  night.” 

“  They  think,”  said  Hugh,  when  he  had  tossed  the 
liquor  down,  “that  I  am  sleeping  soundly  in  the 
stable.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  The  stable  door  is  shut,  but 
the  steed’s  gone,  master.” 

“  You  are  a  most  convivial  fellow,”  returned  his 
friend,  “  and  I  love  your  humor  of  all  things.  Good¬ 
night  !  Take  the  greatest  possible  care  of  yourself, 
for  my  sake !” 

It  was  remarkable  that  during  the  whole  inter¬ 
view,  each  had  endeavored  to  catch  stolen  glances 
of  the  other’s  face,  and  had  never  looked  full  at  it. 
They  interchanged  one  brief  and  hasty  glance  as 
Hugh  went  out,  averted  their  eyes  directly,  and  so 
separated.  Hugh  closed  the  double  doors  behind 
him,  carefully  and  without  noise ;  and  Mr.  Chester 
remained  in  his  easv-chair,  with  his  gaze  intently 
fixed  upon  the  fire. 

“Well!”  he  said,  after  meditating  for  a  long  time 
— and  said  with  a  deep  sigh  and  an  uneasy  shifting 
of  his  attitude,  as  though  he  dismissed  some  other 
subject  from  his  thoughts,  and  returned  to  that 
which  had  held  possession  of  them  all  the  day — 
“  the  plot  thickens ;  I  have  thrown  the  shell ;  it 
will  explode,  I  think,  in  eight-aud-forty  hours,  and 
should  scatter  these  good  folks  amazingly.  Wo 
shall  see !” 


96 


BAB NAB Y  BUDGE. 


He  went  to  bed  and  fell  asleep,  but  bad  not  slept 
long  when  he  started  up  and  thought  that  Hugh 
was  at  the  outer  door,  calling  in  a  strange  voice, 
very  different  from  his  own,  to  be  admitted.  The 
delusion  was  so  strong  upon  him,  and  was  so  full 
of  that  vague  terror  of  the  night  in  which  such  vis¬ 
ions  have  their  being,  that  he  rose,  and  taking  his 
sheathed  sword  in  his  hand,  opened  the  door,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  staircase,  and  toward  the  spot 
where  Hugh  had  lain  asleep  ;  and  even  spoke  to  him 
by  name.  But  all  was  dark  and  quiet,  and  creeping 
back  to  bed  again,  he  fell,  after  an  hour’s  uneasy 
watching,  into  a  second  sleep,  and  woke  no  more 
till  morning. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  thoughts  of  worldly  men  are  forever  regu¬ 
lated  by  a  moral  law  of  gravitation,  which,  like 
the  physical  one,  holds  them  down  to  earth.  The 
bright  glory  of  day,  and  the  silent  wonders  of  a  star¬ 
lit  night,  appeal  to  their  minds  in  vain.  There  are 
no  signs  in  the  sun,  or  in  the  moon,  or  in  the  stars, 
for  their  reading.  They  are  like  some  wise  men, 
who,  learning  to  know  each  planet  by  its  Latin 
name,  have  quite  forgotten  such  small  heavenly 
constellations  as  Charity,  Forbearance,  Universal 
Love,  and  Mercy,  although  they  shine  by  night  and 
day  so  brightly  that  the  blind  may  see  them ;  and 
who,  looking  upward  at  the  spangled  sky,  see  noth¬ 
ing  there  but  the  reflection  of  their  own  great  wis¬ 
dom  and  book-learning. 

It  is  curious  to  imagine  these  people  of  the  world, 
busy  in  thought,  turning  their  eyes  toward  the  count¬ 
less  spheres  that  shine  above  us,  and  making  them 
reflect  the  only  images  their  minds  contain.  The 
man  who  lives  but  in  the  breath  of  princes,  has  noth¬ 
ing  in  his  sight  but  stars  for  courtiers’  breasts.  The 
envious  man  beholds  his  neighbors’  honors  even  in 
the  sky;  to  the  money-hoarder,  and  the  mass  of 
worldly  folk,  the  whole  great  universe  above  glit¬ 
ters  with  sterling  coin — fresh  from  the  mint — stamp¬ 
ed  with  the  sovereign’s  head  coming  always  be¬ 
tween  them  and  heaven,  turn  where  they  may.  So 
do  the  shadows  of  our  own  desires  stand  between 
us  and  our  better  angels,  and  thus  their  brightness 
is  eclipsed. 

Every  thing  was  fresh  and  gay,  as  though  the 
world  were  but  that  morning  made,  when  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter  rode  at  a  tranquil  pace  along  the  Forest  Road. 
Though  early  in  the  season,  it  was  warm  and  genial 
weather;  the  trees  were  budding  into  leaf,  the  hedges 
and  the  grass  were  green,  the  air  was  musical  with 
songs  of  birds,  and  high  above  them  all  the  lark 
poured  out  her  richest  melody.  In  shady  spots,  the 
morning  dew  sparkled  on  each  young  leaf  and  blade 
of  grass ;  and  where  the  sun  was  shining,  some  dia¬ 
mond  drops  yet  glistened  brightly,  as  in  unwilling¬ 
ness  to  leave  so  fair  a  world,  and  have  such  brief 
existence.  Even  the  light  wind,  whose  rustling  was 
as  gentle  to  the  ear  as  softly-falling  water,  had  its 
hope  and  promise ;  and,  leaving  a  pleasant  fragrance 
in  its  track  as  it  went  fluttering  by,  whispered  of  its 
intercourse  with  Summer,  and  of  his  happy  coming. 
The  solitary  rider  went  glancing  on  among  the 


trees,  from  sunlight  into  shade  and  back  again,  at 
the  same  even  pace — looking  about  him,  certainly, 
from  time  to  time,  but  with  no  greater  thought  of 
the  day  or  the  scene  through  which  he  moved,  than 
that  he  was  fortunate  (being  choicely  dressed)  to 
have  such  favorable  weather.  He  smiled  very  com¬ 
placently  at  such  times,  but  rather  as  if  he  were 
satisfied  with  himself  than  with  any  thing  else :  and 
so  went  riding  on,  upon  his  chestnut  cob,  as  pleas¬ 
ant  to  look  upon  as  his  own  horse,  and  probably  far 
less  sensitive  to  the  many  cheerful  influences  by 
which  he  was  surrounded. 

In  the  course  of  time,  the  Maypole’s  massive  chim¬ 
neys  rose  upon  his  view :  but  he  quickened  not  his 
pace  one  jot,  and  with  the  same  cool  gravity  rode 
up  to  the  tavern  porch.  John  Willet,  who  was 
toasting  his  red  face  before  a  great  fire  in  the  bar, 
and  who,  with  surpassing  foresight  and  quickness 
of  apprehension,  had  been  thinking,  as  he  looked 
at  the  blue  sky,  that  if  that  state  of  things  lasted 
much  longer,  it  might  ultimately  become  necessary 
to  leave  off  fires  and  throw  the  windows  open,  issued 
forth  to  hold  his  stirrup ;  calling  lustily  for  Hugh. 

“Oh,  you’re  here,  are  you,  sir?”  said  John,  rather 
surprised  by  the  quickness  with  which  he  appeared. 
“Take  this  here  valuable  animal  into  the  stable, 
and  have  more  than  particular  care  of  him  if  you 
want  to  keep  your  place.  A  mortal  lazy  fellow,  sir; 
he  needs  a  deal  of  looking  after.” 

“But  you  have  a  son,”  returned  Mr.  Chester,  giv¬ 
ing  his  bridle  to  Hugh  as  he  dismounted,  and  ac¬ 
knowledging  his  salute  by  a  careless  motion  of  his 
hand  toward  his  hat.  “Why  don’t  you  make  Mm 
useful ?” 

“  Why,  the  truth  is,  sir,”  replied  John  with  great 
importance,  “that  my  son — what,  you’re  a-listening 
are  you,  villain  ?” 

“Who’s  listening?”  returned  Hugh,  angrily.  “A 
treat,  indeed,  to  hear  you  speak !  Would  you  have 
me  take  him  in  till  he’s  cool  ?” 

“Walk  him  up  and  down  farther  off  then,  sir,” 
cried  old  John,  “and  when  you  see  me  and  a  noble 
gentleman  entertaining  ourselves  with  talk,  keep 
your  distance.  If  you  don’t  know  your  distance, 
sir,”  added  Mr.  Willet,  after  an  enormously  long 
pause,  during  which  he  fixed  his  great  dull  eyes  on 
Hugh,  and  waited  with  exemplary  patience  for  any 
little  property  in  the  way  of  ideas  that  might  come 
to  him,  “  we’ll  find  a  way  to  teach  you,  pretty  soon.” 

Hugh  shrugged  his  shoulders  scornfully,  and  in 
his  reckless  swaggering  way,  crossed  to  the  other 
side  of  the  little  green,  and  there,  with  the  bridle 
slung  loosely  over  his  shoulder,  led  the  horse  to  and 
fro,  glancing  at  his  master  every  now  and  then  from 
under  his  bushy  eyebrows,  with  as  sinister  an  as¬ 
pect  as  one  would  desire  to  see. 

Mr.  Chester,  who,  without  appearing  to  do  so,  had 
eyed  him  attentively  during  this  brief  dispute,  step¬ 
ped  into  the  porch,  and  turning  abruptly  to  Mr. 
Willet,  said, 

“You  keep  strange  servants,  Johu.” 

“  Strange  enough  to  look  at,  sir,  certainly,”  an¬ 
swered  the  host ;  “  but  out-of-doors ;  for  horses,  dogs, 
and  the  likes  of  that ;  there  an’t  a  better  man  in 
England  than  is  that  Maypole  Hugh  yonder.  He 
an’t  fit  for  indoors,”  added  Mr.  Willet,  with  the  con- 


JOHN  WILLET  AND  HIS  DETAINEE. 


97 


fidential  air  of  a  man  who  felt  his  own  superior  na¬ 
ture.  “ I  do  that ;  but  if  that  chap  had  only  a  little 
imagination,  sir — ” 

“  He’s  an  active  fellow  now,  I  dare  swear,”  said 
Mr.  Chester,  in  a  musing  tone,  which  seemed  to  sug¬ 
gest  that  he  would  have  said  the  same  had  there 
been  nobody  to  hear  him. 

“Active,  sir!”  retorted  John,  with  quite  an  ex¬ 
pression  in  his  face;  “that  chap!  Halloo  there! 
You,  sir!  Bring  that  horse  here,  and  go  and  hang 
my  wig  on  the  weather-cock,  to  show  this  gentle¬ 
man  whether  you’re  one  of  the  lively  sort  or  not.” 

Hugh  made  no  answer,  but  throwing  the  bridle 
to  his  master,  and  snatching  his  wig  from  his  head, 
in  a  manner  so  unceremonious  and  hasty  that  the 
action  discomposed  Mr.  Willet  not  a  little,  though 
performed  at  his  own  special  desire,  climbed  nimbly 
to  the  very  summit  of  the  may-pole  before  the  house, 
and  hanging  the  wig  upon  the  weather-cock,  sent 
it  twirling  round  like  a  roasting-jack.  Having 
achieved  this  performance,  he  cast  it  on  the  ground, 
and  sliding  down  the  pole  with  inconceivable  ra¬ 
pidity,  alighted  on  his  feet  almost  as  soon  as  it  had 
touched  the  earth. 

“  There,  sir,”  said  John,  relapsing  into  his  usual 
stolid  state,  “you  won’t  see  that  at  many  houses 
besides  the  Maypole,  where  there’s  good  accommo¬ 
dation  for  man  and  beast — nor  that  neither,  though 
that  with  him  is  nothing.” 

This  last  remark  bore  reference  to  his  vaulting 
on  horseback,  as  upon  Mr.  Chester’s  first  visit,  and 
quickly  disappearing  by  the  stable  gate. 

“  That  with  him  is  nothing,”  repeated  Mr.  Willet, 
brushing  his  wig  with  his  wrist,  and  inwardly  re¬ 
solving  to  distribute  a  small  charge  for  dust  and 
damage  to  that  article  of  dress,  through  the  various 
items  of  his  guest’s  bill;  “he’ll  get  out  of  a’most 
any  winder  in  the  house.  There  never  was  such  a 
chap  for  flinging  himself  about  and  never  hurting 
his  bones.  It’s  my  opinion,  sir,  that  it’s  pretty  near¬ 
ly  all  owing  to  his  not  having  any  imagination  ;  and 
if  that  imagination  could  be  (which  it  can’t)  knock¬ 
ed  into  him,  he’d  never  be  able  to  do  it  any  more. 
But  we  was  a-talking,  sir,  about  my  son.” 

“  True,  Willet,  true,”  said  his  visitor,  turning  again 
toward  the  landlord  with  that  serenity  of  face.  “  My 
good  friend,  what  about  him  ?” 

It  has  been  reported  that  Mr.  Willet,  previously 
to  making  answer,  winked.  But  as  he  was  never 
known  to  be  guilty  of  such  lightness  of  conduct  ei¬ 
ther  before  or  afterward,  this  may  be  looked  upon 
as  a  malicious  invention  of  his  enemies — founded, 
perhaps,  upon  the  undisputed  circumstance  of  his 
taking  his  guest  by  the  third  breast-button  of  his 
coat,  counting  downward  from  the  chin,  and  pouring 
his  reply  into  his  ear : 

“  Sir,”  whispered  John,  with  dignity,  “  I  know  my 
duty.  We  want  no  love-making  here,  sir,  unbe¬ 
known  to  parents.  I  respect  a  certain  young  gen¬ 
tleman,  taking  him  in  the  light  of  a  young  gentle¬ 
man  ;  I  respect  a  certain  young  lady,  taking  her  in 
the  light  of  a  young  lady ;  but  of  the  two  as  a  cou¬ 
ple,  I  have  no  knowledge,  sir,  none  whatever.  My 
son,  sir,  is  upon  his  patrole.” 

“  I  thought  I  saw  him  looking  through  the  corner 
window  but  this  moment,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  who 

7 


naturally  thought  that  being  on  patrole  implied 
walking  about  somewhere. 

“No  doubt  you  did,  sir,”  returned  John.  “He  is 
upon  his  patrole  of  honor,  sir,  not  to  leave  the  prem¬ 
ises.  Me  and  some  friends  of  mine  that  use  the 
Maypole  of  an  evening,  sir,  considered  what  was 
best  to  be  done  with  liiih,  to  prevent  his  doing  any 
thing  unpleasant  in  opposing  your  desires;  and  we’ve 
put  him  on  his  patrole.  And  what’s  more,  sir,  he 
won’t  be  off  his  patrole  for  a  pretty  long  time  to 
come,  I  can  tell  you  that.” 

When  he  had  communicated  this  bright  idea, 
which  had  its  origin  in  the  perusal  by  the  village 
cronies  of  a  newspaper,  containing  among  other 
matters,  an  account  of  how  some  officer  pending 
the  sentence  of  some  court-martial  had  been  en¬ 
larged  on  parole,  Mr.  Willet  drew  back  from  his 
guest’s  ear,  and  without  any  visible  alteration  of 
feature',  chuckled  thrice  audibly.  This  nearest  ap¬ 
proach  to  a  laugh  in  which  he  ever  indulged  (and 
that  but  seldom  and  only  on  extreme  occasions), 
never  even  curled  his  lip  or  effected  the  smallest 
change  in — no,  not  so  much  as  a  slight  wagging  of 
— his  great,  fat,  double  chin,  which  at  these  times, 
as  at  all  others,  remained  a  perfect  desert  in  the 
broad  map  of  his  face ;  one  changeless,  dull,  tre¬ 
mendous  blank. 

Lest  it  should  be  matter  of  surprise  to  any,  that 
Mr.  Willet  adopted  this  bold  course  in  opposition  to 
one  whom  he  had  often  entertained,  and  who  had  al¬ 
ways  paid  his  way  at  the  Maypole  gallantly,  it  may 
be  remarked  that  it  was  his  very  penetration  and 
sagacity  in  this  respect,  which  occasioned  him  to  in¬ 
dulge  in  those  unusual  demonstrations  of  jocularity, 
just  now  recorded.  For  Mr.  Willet,  after  carefully 
balanciilg  father  and  son  in  his  mental  scales,  had  ar¬ 
rived  at  the  distinct  conclusion  that  the  old  gentle¬ 
man  was  a  better  sort  of  a  customer  than  the  young 
one.  Throwing  his  landlord  into  the  same  scale, 
which  was  already  turned  by  this  consideration,  and 
heaping  upon  him,  again,  his  strong  desires  to  run 
counter  to  the  unfortunate  Joe,  and  his  opposition 
as  a  general  principle  to  all  matters  of  love  and  mat¬ 
rimony,  it  went  down  to  the  very  ground  straight¬ 
way,  and  sent  the  light  cause  of  the  younger  gentle¬ 
man  flying  upward  to  the  ceiling.  Mr.  Chester  was 
not  the  kind  of  man  to  be  by  any  means  dim-sighted 
to  Mr.  Willet’s  motives,  but  he  thanked  him  as  gra¬ 
ciously  as  if  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  disinterest¬ 
ed  martyrs  that  ever  shone  on  earth ;  and  leaving 
him,  with  many  complimentary  reliances  on  his  great 
taste  and  judgment,  to  prepare  whatever  dinner  he 
might  deem  most  fitting  the  occasion,  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  Warren. 

Dressed  with  more  than  his  usual  elegance;  as¬ 
suming  a  gracefulness  of  manner,  which  though  it 
was  the  result  of  long  study,  sat  easily  upon  him  and 
became  him  well ;  composing  his  features  into  their 
most  serene  and  prepossessing  expression ;  and  set¬ 
ting  in  short  that  guard  upon  himself,  at  every  point, 
which  denoted  that  he  attached  no  slight  importance 
to  the  impression  he  was  about  to  make ;  he  entered 
the  bounds  of  Miss  Haredale’s  usual  walk.  He  had 
not  gone  far,  or  looked  about  him  long,  when  he  de¬ 
scried  coming  toward  him  a  female  figure.  A  glimpse 
of  the  form  and  dress  as  she  crossed  a  little  wooden 


98 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


bridge  which  lay  between  them,  satisfied  him  that 
he  had  found  her  whom  he  desired  to  see.  He  threw 
himself  in  her  way,  and  a  very  few  paces  brought 
them  close  together. 

He  raised  his  hat  from  his  head,  and  yielding  the 
path,  suffered  her  to  pass  him.  Then,  as  if  the  idea 
had  but  that  moment  occurred  to  him,  he  turned 
hastily  back,  and  said  in  an  agitated  voice : 

“  I  beg  pardon — do  I  address  Miss  Haredalo  V ’ 


advanced  in  life,  as  you  see.  I  am  the  father  of  him 
whom  you  honor  and  distinguish  above  all  other 
men.  May  I  for  weighty  reasons  which  fill  me  with 
distress,  beg  but  a  minute’s  conversation  with  you 

here  ?” 

Who  that  was  inexperienced  in  deceit,  and  had  a 
frank  and  youthful  heart,  could  doubt  the  speaker’s 
truth — could  doubt  it  too,  when  the  voice  that  spoke 
was  like  the  faint  echo  of  one  she  knew  so  well,  and 


She  stopped  in  some  confusion  at  being  so  unex¬ 
pectedly  accosted  by  a  stranger;  and  answered  “  Yes.” 

“Something  told  me,”  he  said,  looking  a  compli¬ 
ment  to  her  beauty,  “  that  it  could  he  no  other.  Miss 
Haredale,  I  bear  a  name  which  is  not  unknown  to 
you — which  it  is  a  pride,  and  yet  a  pain  to  me  to 
know,  sounds  pleasantly  in  your  ears.  I  am  a  man 


so  much  loved  to  hear?  She  inclined  her  head,  and 
stopping,  cast  her  eyes  upon  the  ground. 

“A  little  more  apart — among  these  trees.  It  is 
an  old  man’s  hand,  Miss  Haredale ;  an  honest  one, 
believe  me.” 

She  put  hers  in  it  as  he  said  these  words,  and  suf¬ 
fered  him  to  lead  her  to  a  neighboring  seat. 


MR.  CHESTER  AND  MISS  HAREDALE. 


99 


“You  alarm  me,  sir,”  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
“  You  are  not  the  hearer  of  any  ill  news,  I  hope  ?” 

“  Of  none  that  you  anticipate,”  he  answered,  sit¬ 
ting  down  beside  her.  “  Edward  is  well — quite  well. 
It  is  of  him  I  wish  to  speak,  certainly;  hut  I  have 
no  misfortune  to  communicate.” 

She  bowed  her  head  again,  and  made  as  though 
she  would  have  begged  him  to  proceed;  but  said 
nothing. 

“  I  am  sensible  that  I  speak  to  you  at  a  disadvan¬ 
tage,  dear  Miss  Haredale.  Believe  me  that  I  am  not 
so  forgetful  of  the  feelings  of  my  younger  days  as  not 
to  know  that  you  are  little  disposed  to  view  me  with 
favor.  You  have  heard  me  described  as  cold-hearted, 
calculating,  selfish — ” 

“  I  have  never,  sir — ”  she  interposed,  with  an  alter¬ 
ed  manner  and  a  firmer  voice  ;  “  I  have  never  heard 
you  spoken  of  in  harsh  or  disrespectful  terms.  You 
do  a  great  wrong  to  Edward’s  nature  if  you  believe 
him  capable  of  any  mean  or  base  proceeding.” 

“Pardon  me,  my  sweet  young  lady,  but  your  un¬ 
cle — ” 

“Nor  is  it  my  uncle’s  nature  either,”  she  replied, 
with  a  heightened  color  in  her  cheek.  “  It  is  not 
his  nature  to  stab  in  the  dark,  nor  is  it  mine  to  love 
such  deeds.” 

She  rose  as  she  spoke,  and  would  have  left  him ; 
hut  he  detained  her  with  a  gentle  hand,  and  besought 
her  in  such  persuasive  accents  to  hear  him  but  an¬ 
other  minute,  that  she  was  easily  prevailed  upon  to 
comply,  and  so  sat  down  again. 

“And  it  is,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  looking  upward, 
and  apostrophizing  the  air ;  “  it  is  this  frank,  ingen¬ 
uous,  noble  nature,  Ned,  that  you  can  wound  so  light¬ 
ly.  Shame — shame  upon  you,  hoy !” 

She  turned  toward  him  quickly,  and  with  a  scorn¬ 
ful  look  and  flashing  eyes.  There  were  tears  in  Mr. 
Chester’s  eyes,  hut  he  dashed  them  hurriedly  away, 
as  though  unwilling  that  his  weakness  should  be 
known,  and  regarded  her  with  mingled  admiration 
and  compassion. 

“  I  never  until  now,”  he  said,  “  believed,  that  the 
frivolous  actions  of  a  young  man  could  move  me  like 
these  of  my  own  son.  I  never  knew  till  now,  the 
worth  of  a  woman’s  heart,  which  hoys  so  lightly  win, 
and  lightly  fling  away.  Trust  me,  dear  young  lady, 
that  I  never  until  now  did  know  your  worth ;  and 
though  an  abhorrence  of  deceit  and  falsehood  has 
impelled  me  to  seek  you  out,  and  would  have  done 
so  had  you  been  the  poorest  and  least  gifted  of  your 
sex,  I  should  have  lacked  the  fortitude  to  sustain  this 
interview  could  I  have  pictured  you  to  my  imagina¬ 
tion  as  you  really  are.” 

Oh !  If  Mrs.  Varden  could  have  seen  the  virtuous 
gentleman  as  he  said  these  words,  with  indignation 
sparkling  from  his  eyes — if  she  could  have  heard  his 
broken,  quavering  voice — if  she  could  have  beheld 
him  as  he  stood  bare-headed  in  the  sunlight,  and  with 
unwonted  energy  poured  forth  his  eloquence ! 

With  a  haughty  face,  but  pale  and  trembling  too, 
Emma  regarded  him  in  silence.  She  neither  spoke 
nor  moved,  but  gazed  upon  him  as  though  she  would 
look  into  his  heart. 

“I  throw  off,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  “the  restraint 
which  natural  affection  would  impose  on  some  men, 
and  reject  all  bonds  but  those  of  truth  and  duty. 


Miss  Haredale,  you  are  deceived ;  you  are  deceived 
by  your  unworthy  lover,  and  my  unworthy  son.” 

Still  she  looked  at  him  steadily,  and  still  said  not 
one  word. 

“  I  have  ever  opposed  his  professions  of  love  for 
you  ;  you  will  do  me  the  justice,  dear  Miss  Haredale, 
to  remember  that.  Your  uncle  and  myself  were  en¬ 
emies  in  early  life,  and  if  I  had  sought  retaliation, 
I  might  have  found  it  here.  But  as  we  grow  older, 
we  grow  wiser — better,  I  would  fain  hope — and  from 
the  first,  I  have  opposed  him  in  this  attempt.  I 
foresaw  the  end,  and  would  have  spared  you,  if  I 
could.” 

“  Speak  plainly,  sir,”  she  faltered.  “  You  deceive 
me,  or  are  deceived  yourself.  I  do  not  believe  you 
— I  can  not — I  should  not.” 

“First,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  soothingly,  “for  there 
may  be  in  your  mind  some  latent  angry  feeling  to 
which  I  would  not  appeal,  pray  take  this  letter.  It 
reached  my  hand  by  chance,  and  by  mistake,  and 
should  have  accounted  to  you  (as  I  am  told)  for  my 
son’s  not  answering  some  other  note  of  yours.  God 
forbid,  Miss  Haredale,”  said  the  good  gentleman, 
with  great  emotion,  “  that  there  should  be  in  your 
gentle  breast  one  causeless  ground  of  quarrel  with 
him.  You  should  know,  and  you  will  see,  that  he 
was  in  no  fault  here.” 

There  appeared  something  so  very  candid,  so  scru¬ 
pulously  honorable,  so  very  truthful  and  just  in  this 
course — something  which  rendered  the  upright  per¬ 
son  who  resorted  to  it,  so  worthy  of  belief — that 
Emma’s  heart,  for  the  first  time,  sunk  within  her. 
She  turned  away  and  burst  into  tears. 

“  I  would,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  leaning  over  her,  and 
speaking  in  mild  and  quite  venerable  accents ;  “  I 
would,  dear  girl,  it  were  my  task  to  banish,  not  in¬ 
crease,  those  tokens  of  your  grief.  My  son,  my  err¬ 
ing  son — I  will  not  call  him  deliberately  criminal 
in  this,  for  men  so  young,  who  have  been  inconstant 
twice  or  thrice  before,  act  without  reflection,  almost 
without  a  knowledge  of  the  wrong  they  do — will 
break  his  plighted  faith  to  you ;  has  broken  it  even 
now.  Shall  I  stop  here,  and  having  given  you  this 
warning,  leave  it  to  be  fulfilled ;  or  shall  I  go  on  ?” 

“You  will  go  on,  sir,”  she  answered,  “and  speak 
more  plainly  yet,  in  justice  both  to  him  and  me.” 

“My  dear  girl,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  bending  over 
her  more  affectionately  still ;  “  whom  I  would  call 
my  daughter,  but  the  Fates  forbid,  Edward  seeks  to 
break  with  you  upon  a  false  and  most  unwarranta¬ 
ble  pretense.  I  have  it  on  his  own  showing  ;  in  his 
own  hand.  Forgive  me,  if  I  have  had  a  watch  upon 
his  conduct ;  I  am  his  father ;  I  had  a  regard  for  your 
peace  and  his  honor,  and  no  better  resource  was  left 
me.  There  lies  on  his  desk  at  this  present  moment, 
ready  for  transmission  to  you,  a  letter,  in  which  he 
tells  you  that  our  poverty  —  our  poverty;  his  and 
mine,  Miss  Haredale — forbids  him  to  pursue  his  claim 
upon  your  hand ;  in  which  he  offers,  involuntarily 
proposes,  to  free  you  from  your  pledge;  and  talks 
magnanimously  (men  do  so,  very  commonly,  in  such 
cases)  of  being  in  time  more  worthy  of  your  regard 
— and  so  forth.  A  letter,  to  be  plain,  in  which  he 
not  only  jilts  you — pardon  the  word ;  I  would  sum¬ 
mon  to  your  aid  your  pride  and  dignity — not  only 
jilts  you,  I  fear,  in  favor  of  the  object  whose  slight- 


100 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


ing  treatment  first  inspired  his  brief  passion  for 
yourself  and  gave  it  birth  in  wounded  vanity,  but 
affects  to  make  a  merit  aud  a  virtue  of  the  act.” 

She  glanced  proudly  at  him  once  more,  as  by  an 
involuntary  impulse,  aud  with  a  swelling  breast  re¬ 
joined,  “  If  what  you  say  be  true,  be  takes  much 
needless  trouble,  sir,  to  compass  bis  design.  He  is 
very  tender  of  my  peace  of  mind.  I  quite  thank 
him.” 

“  The  truth  of  what  I  tell  you,  dear  young  lady,” 
be  replied,  “  you  will  test  by  the  receipt  or  non-re¬ 
ceipt  of  the  letter  of  which  I  speak.  Haredale,  my 
dear  fellow,  I  am  delighted  to  see  you,  although  we 
meet  under  singular  circumstauces,  and  upon  a  mel¬ 
ancholy  occasion.  I  hope  you  are  very  well.” 

At  these  words  the  young  lady  raised  her  eyes, 
which  were  filled  with  tears;  and  seeing  that  her 
uncle  indeed  stood  before  them,  and  being  quite  un¬ 
equal  to  the  trial  of  hearing  or  of  speaking  one  word 
more,  hurriedly  withdrew,  aud  left  them.  They 
stood  looking  at  each  other,  and  at  her  retreating 
figure,  aud  for  a  long  time  neither  of  them  spoke. 

“What  does  this  mean?  Explain  it,”  said  Mr. 
Haredale  at  length.  “  Why  are  you  here,  and  why 
with  her  ?” 

“My  dear  friend,”  rejoined  the  other,  resuming 
his  accustomed  manner  with  infinite  readiness,  and 
throwing  himself  upon  the  bench  with  a  weary  air, 
“  you  told  me  not  very  long  ago,  at  that  delightful 
old  tavern  of  which  you  are  the  esteemed  proprietor 
(and  a  most  charming  establishment  it  is  for  per¬ 
sons  of  rural  pursuits  and  in  robust  health,  who  are 
not  liable  to  take  cold),  that  I  had  the  head  and 
heart  of  an  evil  spirit  in  all  matters  of  deception. 
I  thought  at  the  time ;  I  really  did  think ;  you  flat¬ 
tered  me.  But  now  I  begin  to  wonder  at  your  dis¬ 
cernment,  and  vanity  apart,  do  honestly  believe  you 
spoke  the  truth.  Did  you  ever  counterfeit  extreme 
ingenuousness  and  honest  indignation  ?  My  dear  fel¬ 
low,  you  have  no  conception,  if  you  never  did,  how 
faint  the  effort  makes  one.” 

Mr.  Haredale  surveyed  him  with  a  look  of  cold  con¬ 
tempt.  “  You  may  evade  an  explanation,  I  know,” 
he  said,  folding  his  arms.  “But  I  must  have  it.  I 
can  wait.” 

“Not  at  all.  Not  at  all,  my  good  fellow.  You 
shall  not  wait  a  moment,”  returned  his  friend,  as  he 
lazily  crossed  his  legs.  “  The  simplest  thing  in  the 
world.  It  lies  in  a  nutshell.  Ned  has  written  her 
a  letter — a  boyish,  honest,  sentimental  composition, 
which  remains  as  yet  in  his  desk,  because  he  hasn’t 
had  the  heart  to  send  it.  I  have  taken  a  liberty,  for 
which  my  jiarental  affection  and  anxiety  are  a  suffi¬ 
cient  excuse,  and  possessed  myself  of  the  contents. 
I  have  described  them  to  your  niece  (a  most  en¬ 
chanting  person,  Haredale ;  quite  an  angelic  crea¬ 
ture),  with  a  little  coloring  aud  description  adapted 
to  our  purpose.  It’s  done.  You  may  be  quite  easy. 
It’s  all  over.  Deprived  of  their  adherents  and  me¬ 
diators;  her  pride  and  jealousy  roused  to  the  ut¬ 
most  ;  with  nobody  to  undeceive  her,  and  you  to 
confirm  me ;  you  will  find  that  their  intercourse  will 
close  with  her  answer.  If  she  receives  Ned’s  letter 
by  to-morrow  noon,  you  may  date  their  parting  from 
to-morrow  night.  No  thanks,  I  beg ;  you  owe  me 
none.  I  have  acted  for  myself ;  and  if  I  have  for¬ 


warded  our  compact  with  all  the  ardor  even  you 
could  have  desired,  I  have  done  so  selfishly,  indeed.” 

“  I  curse  the  compact,  as  you  call  it,  with  my 
whole  heart  and  soul,”  returned  the  other.  “  It  was 
made  in  an  evil  hour.  I  have  bound  myself  to  a  lie ; 
I  have  leagued  myself  with  you ;  and  though  I  did 
so  with  a  righteous  motive,  and  though  it  cost  me 
such  an  effort  as  haply  few  men  know,  I  hate  and  de¬ 
spise  myself  for  the  deed.” 

“You  are  very  warm,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  with  a 
languid  smile. 

“  I  am  warm.  I  am  maddened  by  your  coldness. 
’Death,  Chester,  if  your  blood  ran  warmer  in  your 
veins,  and  there  were  no  restraints  upon  me,  such  as 
those  that  hold  and  drag  me  back — well ;  it  is  done ; 
you  tell  me  so,  aud  on  such  a  poiut  I  may  believe 
you.  When  I  am  most  remorseful  for  this  treach¬ 
ery,  I  will  think  of  you  and  your  marriage,  and  try 
to  justify  myself  in  such  remembrances,  for  having- 
torn  asunder  Emma  and  your  son,  at  any  cost.  Our 
bond  is  canceled  now,  and  we  may  part.” 

Mr.  Chester  kissed  his  hand  gracefully ;  and  with 
the  same  tranquil  face  he  had  preserved  throughout 
— even  when  he  had  seen  his  companion  so  tortured 
and  transported  by  his  passion  that  his  whole  frame 
was  shaken — lay  in  his  lounging  posture  on  the  seat 
and  watched  him  as  he  walked  away. 

“My  scape -goat  and  my  drudge  at  school,”  he 
said,  raising  his  head  to  look  after  him ;  “  my  friend 
of  later  days,  who  could  not  keep  his  mistress  when 
he  had  won  her,  and  threw  me  in  her  way  to  carry 
off  the  prize ;  I  triumph  in  the  present  and  the  past. 
Bark  on,  ill-favored,  ill-conditioned  cur;  fortune  has 
ever  been  with  me — I  like  to  hear  you.” 

The  spot  where  they  had  met,  was  in  an  avenue 
of  trees.  Mr.  Haredale  not  passing  out  on  either 
hand,  had  walked  straight  on.  He  chanced  to  turn 
his  head  when  at  some  considerable  distance,  and 
seeing  that  his  late  companion  had  by  that  time 
risen  and  was  looking  after  him,  stood  still  as  though 
he  half  expected  him  to  follow,  and  waited  for  his 
coming  up. 

“It  may  come  to  that  one  day,  but  not  yet,”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  waving  his  hand,  as  though  they  were  the 
best  of  friends,  and  turning  away.  “Not  yet,  Hare¬ 
dale.  Life  is  pleasant  enough  to  me ;  dull  and  full 
of  heaviness  to  you.  No.  To  cross  swords  with 
such  a  man— to  indulge  his  humor  unless  upon  ex¬ 
tremity — would  be  weak  indeed.” 

For  all  that,  he  drew  his  sword  as  he  walked 
along,  and  in  an  absent  humor  ran  his  eye  from  hilt 
to  point  full  twenty  times.  But  thoughtfulness  be¬ 
gets  wrinkles  ;  remembering  this,  he  soon  put  it  up, 
smoothed  his  contracted  brow,  hummed  a  gay  tune 
with  greater  gayety  of  manner,  and  was  his  unruf¬ 
fled  self  again. 

- ♦ - 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

A  HOMELY  proverb  recognizes  the  existence  of 
a  troublesome  class  of  persons  who,  having  an 
inch  conceded  them,  will  take  an  ell.  Not  to  quote 
the  illustrious  examples  of  those  heroic  scourges  of 
mankind,  whose  amiable  path  in  life  has  been  from 
birth  to  death  through  blood,  and  fire,  and  ruin,  and 


JOE’S  FURTHER  HUMILIATION. 


101 


who  would  seem  to  have  existed  for  no  better  pur¬ 
pose  than  to  teach  mankind  that  as  the  absence  of 
pain  is  pleasure,  so  the  earth,  purged  of  their  pres¬ 
ence,  may  be  deemed  a  blessed  place — not  to  quote 
such  mighty  instances,  it  will  be  sufficient  to  refer 
to  old  John  Willet. 

Old  John  having  long  encroached  a  good  standard 
inch,  full  measure,  on  the  liberty  of  Joe,  and  having 
snipped  off  a  Flemish  ell  in  the  matter  of  the  parole, 
grew  so  despotic  and  so  great,  that  his  thirst  for  con¬ 
quest  knew  no  bounds.  The  more  young  Joe  sub¬ 
mitted,  the  more  absolute  old  John  became.  The 
ell  soon  faded  into  nothing.  Yards,  furlongs,  miles 
arose;  and  on  went  old  John  in  the  pleasantest 
manner  possible,  trimming  off  an  exuberance  in  this 
place,  sheariug  away  some  liberty  of  speech  or  action 
in  that,  and  conducting  himself  in  his  small  way 
with  as  much  high  mightiness  and  majesty,  as  the 
most  glorious  tyrant  that  6ver  had  his  statue  reared 
in  the  public  ways,  of  ancient  or  of  modern  times. 

As  great  men  are  urged  on  to  the  abuse  of  power 
(when  they  need  urging,  which  is  not  often),  by  their 
flatterers  and  dependents,  so  old  John  was  impelled 
to  these  exercises  of  authority  by  the  applause  and 
admiration  of  his  Maypole  cronies,  who,  in  the  inter¬ 
vals  of  their  nightly  pipes  and  pots,  would  shake 
their  heads  and  say  that  Mr.  Willet  was  a  father  of 
the  good  old  English  sort ;  that  there  were  no  new¬ 
fangled  notions  or  modern  ways  in  him ;  that  he  put 
them  in  miud  of  what  their  fathers  were  when  they 
were  boys ;  that  there  was  no  mistake  about  him ; 
that  it  would  be  well  for  the  country  if  there  were 
more  like  him,  and  more  was  the  pity  that  there 
were  not ;  with  many  other  original  remarks  of  that 
nature.  Then  they  would  condescendingly  give  Joe 
to  understand  that  it  was  all  for  his  good,  and  he 
would  be  thankful  for  it  one  day ;  and  in  particular, 
Mr.  Cobb  would  acquaint  him,  that  when  he  was  his 
age,  his  father  thought  no  more  of  giving  him  a  pa¬ 
rental  kick,  or  a  box  on  the  ears,  or  a  cuff  on  the 
head,  or  some  little  admonition  of  that  sort,  than  he 
did  of  any  other  ordinary  duty  of  life ;  and  he  would 
further  remark,  with  looks  of  great  significance,  that 
but  for  this  judicious  bringing  up,  he  might  have 
never"been  the  man  he  was  at  that  present  speak¬ 
ing  ;  which  was  probable  enough,  as  he  was,  beyond 
all  question,  the  dullest  dog  of  the  party.  In  short, 
between  old  John  and  old  John’s  friends,  there  nev¬ 
er  was  an  unfortunate  young  fellow  so  bullied,  bad¬ 
gered,  worried,  fretted,  and  brow -beaten;  so  con¬ 
stantly  beset,  or  made  so  tired  of  his  life,  as  poor  Joe 
Willet. 

This  had  come  to  be  the  recognized  and  establish¬ 
ed  state  of  things ;  but  as  John  was  very  anxious  to 
flourish  his  supremacy  before  the  eyes  of  Mr.  Ches¬ 
ter,  he  did  that  day  exceed  himself,  aud  did  so  goad 
and  chafe  his  son  and  heir,  that  but  for  Joe’s  having 
made  a  solemn  vow  to  keep  his  hands  in  his  pockets 
when  they  were  not  otherwise  engaged,  it  is  impos¬ 
sible  to  say  what  he  might  have  done  with  them. 
But  the  longest  day  has  an  end,  and  at  length  Mr. 
Chester  came  down  stairs  to  mount  his  horse,  which 
was  ready  at  the  door. 

As  old  John  was  not  in  the  way  at  the  moment, 
Joe,  who  was  sitting  in  the  bar  ruminating  on  his 
dismal  fate  and  the  manifold  perfections  of  Dolly 


Vardeu,  ran  out  to  hold  the  guest’s  stirrup  and  as¬ 
sist  him  to  mount.  Mr.  Chester  was  scarcely  in  the 
saddle,  and  Joe  was  in  the  very  act  of  making  him  a 
graceful  bow,  when  old  John  came  diving  out  of  the 
porch,  and  collared  him. 

“None  of  that,  sir,”  said  John,  “none  of  that,  sir. 
No  breaking  of  patroles.  How  dare  you  come  out 
ot  the  door,  sir,  without  leave  ?  You’re  trying  to  get 
away,  sir,  are  you,  and  to  make  a  traitor  of  yourself 
again  ?  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?” 

“Let  me  go,  father,”  said  Joe,  imploringly,  as  he 
marked  the  smile  upon  their  visitor’s  face,  and  ob¬ 
served  the  pleasure  his  disgrace  afforded  him.  “  This 
is  too  bad.  Who  wants  to  get  away  ?” 

“  Who  wants  to  get  away !”  cried  John,  shaking 
him.  “  Why  you  do,  sir,  you  do.  You’re  the  boy, 
sir,”  added  John,  collaring  with  one  hand,  aud  aiding 
the  effect  of  a  farewell  bow  to  the  visitor  with  the 
other,  “  that  wants  to  sneak  into  houses,  aud  stir  up 
differences  between  noble  gentlemen  and  their  sons, 
are  you,  eh  ?  Hold  your  tongue,  sir.” 

Joe  made  no  effort  to  reply.  It  was  the  crowning 
circumstance  of  his  degradation.  He  extricated 
himself  from  his  father’s  grasp,  darted  an  angry  look 
at  the  departing  guest,  and  returned  into  the  house. 

“  But  for  her,”  thought  Joe,  as  he  threw  his  arms 
upon  a  table  in  the  common  room,  and  laid  his  head 
upon  them,  “but  for  Dolly,  who  I  couldn’t  bear 
should  think  me  the  rascal  they  would  make  me  out 
to  be  if  I  ran  away,  this  house  and  I  should  part  to¬ 
night.” 

It  being  evening  by  this  time,  Solomon  Daisy, 
Tom  Cobb,  and  Long  Parkes,  were  all  in  the  com¬ 
mon  room  too,  and  had  from  the  window  been  wit¬ 
nesses  of  what  had  just  occurred.  Mr.  Willet  joining 
them  soon  afterward,  received  the  compliments  of 
the  company  with  great  composure,  and  lighting  his 
pipe,  sat  down  among  them. 

“We’ll  see,  gentlemen,”  said  John,  after  a  long 
pause,  “  who’s  the  master  of  this  house,  and  who 
isn’t.  We’ll  see  whether  boys  are  to  govern  men,  or 
men  are  to  govern  boys.” 

“And  quite  right  too,”  assented  Solomon  Daisy, 
with  some  approving  nods;  “quite  right,  Johnny. 
Very  good,  Johnny.  Well  said,  Mr.  Willet.  Bravo, 
sir.” 

John  slowly  brought  his  eyes  to  bear  upon  him, 
looked  at  him  for  a  long  time,  and  finally  made  an¬ 
swer,  to  the  unspeakable  consternatiou  of  his  hear¬ 
ers,  “  When  I  want  encouragement  from  you,  sir,  I’ll 
ask  you  for  it.  You  let  me  alone,  sir.  I  can  get  on 
without  you,  I  hope.  Don’t  you  tackle  me,  sir,  if 
you  please.” 

“Don’t  take  it  ill,  Johnny;  I  didn’t  mean  any 
harm,”  pleaded  the  little  man. 

“  Very  good,  sir,”  said  John,  more  than  usually  ob¬ 
stinate  after  his  late  success.  “  Never  mind,  sir.  I 
can  stand  pretty  firm  of  myself,  sir,  I  believe,  with¬ 
out  being  shored  up  by  you.”  And  having  given 
utterance  to  this  retort,  Mr.  Willet  fixed  his  eyes 
upon  the  boiler,  and  fell  into  a  kind  of  tobacco- 
trance. 

The  spirits  of  the  company  being  somewhat  damp¬ 
ed  by  this  embarrassing  line  of  conduct  on  the  part 
of  their  host,  nothing  more  was  said  for  a  long  time ; 
but  at  length  Mr.  Cobb  took  upon  himself  to  remark, 


102 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


as  be  rose  to  knock  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  that  he 
hoped  Joe  would  thenceforth  learu  to  obey  his  father 
in  all  things ;  that  he  had  found,  that  day,  he  was 
not  one  of  the  sort  of  men  who  were  to  he  trifled 
with ;  and  that  he  would  recommend  him,  poetically 
speaking,  to  mind  his  eye  for  the  future. 

“I’d  recommend  you,  in  return,”  said  Joe,  looking 
up  with  a  flashed  face,  “not  to  talk  to  me.” 

“Hold  your  tongue,  sir,”  cried  Mr.  Willet,  sudden¬ 
ly  rousing  himself,  aud  turning  round. 

“I  won’t,  father,”  cried  Joe,  smiting  the  table 
with  his  fist,  so  that  the  jugs  and  glasses  rung 
again ;  “  these  things  are  hard  enough  to  bear  from 
you ;  from  any  body  else  I  never  will  endure  them 
any  more.  Therefore  I  say,  Mr.  Cobb,  don’t  talk  to 
me.” 


the  table,  fell  upon  his  long  enemy,  pummeled  him 
with  all  his  might  and  main,  and  finished  by  driv¬ 
ing  him  with  surprising  swiftness  against  a  heap  of 
spittoons  in  one  corner;  plunging  into  which,  head 
foremost,  with  a  tremendous  crash,  he  lay  at  full 
length  among  the  ruins,  stunned  and  motionless. 
Then,  without  waiting  to  receive  the  compliments 
of  the  by-standers  on  the  victory  he  had  won,  lie 
retreated  to  his  own  bed-chamber,  and  considering 
himself  in  a  state  of  siege,  piled  all  the  portable  fur¬ 
niture  against  the  door  by  way  of  barricade. 

“  I  have  done  it  now,”  said  Joe,  as  he  sat  down 
upon  his  bedstead  and  wiped  his  heated  face.  “  I 
knew  it  would  come  at  last.  The  Maypole  and  I 
must  part  company.  I’m  a  roving  vagabond — she 
hates  me  for  evermore — it’s  all  over!” 


FINISHED  BY  DRIVING  HIM  WITH  SURPRISING  SWIFTNESS  AGAINST  A  HEAP  OF  SPITTOONS  IN  ONE  CORNER. 


“  Why,  who  are  you,”  said  Mr.  Cobb,  sneeringly, 
“  that  you’re  not  to  be  talked  to,  eh,  Joe  ?” 

To  which  Joe  returned  no  answer,  but  with  a 
very  ominous  shake  of  the  head,  resumed  his  old  po¬ 
sition,  which  he  would  have  peacefully  preserved 
until  the  house  shut  up  at  night,  but  that  Mr.  Cobb, 
stimulated  by  the  wonder  of  the  company  at  the 
young  man’s  presumption,  retorted  with  sundry 
taunts,  which  proved  too  much  for  flesh  and  Jdood 
to  bear.  Crowding  into  one  moment  the  vexation 
and  the  wrath  of  years,  Joe  started  up,  overturned 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

ONDERING  on  his  unhappy  lot,  Joe  sat  and  list¬ 
ened  for  a  long  time,  expecting  every  moment 
to  hear  their  creaking  footsteps  on  the  stairs,  or  to 
be  greeted  by  his  worthy  father  with  a  suihmous  to 
capitulate  unconditionally,  and  deliver  himself  up 
straightway.  But  neither  voice  nor  footstep  came  ; 
and  though  some  distant  echoes,  as  of  closing  doors 
and  people  hurrying  in  and  out  of  rooms,  resound¬ 
ing  from  time  to  time  through  the  great  passages, 


A  RECRUITING  SERGEANT. 


103 


ami  penetrating  to  liis  remote  seclusion,  gave  note 
of  unusual  commotion  down  stairs,  no  nearer  sound 
disturbed  his  place  of  retreat,  which  seemed  the  qui¬ 
eter  for  these  far-off  noises,  and  was  as  dull  and  full 
of  gloom  as  any  hermit’s  cell. 

It  came  on  darker  and  darker.  The  old-fashioned 
furniture  of  the  chamber,  which  was  a  kind  of  hos¬ 
pital  for  all  the  invalided  movables  in  the  house, 
grew  indistinct  and  shadowy  in  its  many  shapes ; 
chairs  and  tables,  which  by  day  were  as  honest  crip¬ 
ples  as  need  be,  assumed  a  doubtful  and  mysterious 
character;  and  one  old  leprous  screen  of  faded  India 
leather  and  gold  binding,  which  had  kept  out  many 
a  cold  breath  of  air  in  days  of  yore  and  shut  in  many 
a  jolly  face,  frowned  on  him  with  a  spectral  aspect, 
and  stood  at  full  height  in  its  allotted  corner,  like 
some  gaunt  ghost  who  waited  to  be  questioned.  A 
portrait  opposite  the  window — a  queer,  old  gray¬ 
eyed  general,  in  an  oval  frame — seemed  to  wink  and 
doze  as  the  light  decayed,  and  at  length,  when  the 
last  faint  glimmering  speck  of  day  went  out,  to  shut 
118  eyes  in  good  earnest,  and  fall  sound  asleep.  There 
was  such  a  hush  and  mystery  about  every  thing, 
that  Joe  could  not  help  following  its  example ;  and 
so  went  off  into  a  slumber  likewise,  and  dreamed  of 
Dolly,  till  the  clock  of  Cliigwell  church  struck  two. 

Still  nobody  came.  The  distant  noises  in  the 
house  had  ceased,  and  out-of-doors  all  was  quiet  too ; 
save  for  the  occasional  barking  of  some  deep-mouth¬ 
ed  dog,  and  the  shaking  of  the  branches  by  the  night 
wind.  He  gazed  mournfully  out  of  window  at  each 
well-known  object  as  it  lay  sleeping  in  the  dim  light 
of  the  moon;  and  creeping  back  to  his  former  seat, 
thought  about  the  late  uproar,  until,  with  long  think¬ 
ing  of,  it  seemed  to  have  occurred  a  month  ago. 
Thus,  between  dozing,  and  thinking,  and  walking  to 
the  window  and  looking  out,  the  night  wore  away; 
the  grim  old  screen,  and  the  kindred  chairs  and  ta¬ 
bles,  began  slowly  to  reveal  themselves  in  their  ac¬ 
customed  forms ;  the  gray-eyed  general  seemed  to 
wink  and  yawn  and  rouse  himself;  and  at  last  he 
was  broad  awake  again,  and  very  uncomfortable  and 
cold  and  haggard  he  looked,  in  the  dull  gray  light 
of  morning. 

The  sun  had  begun  to  peep  above  the  forest  trees, 
and  already  flung  across  the  curling  mist  bright  bars 
of  gold,  when  Joe  dropped  from  his  window  on  the 
ground  below  a  little  bundle  and  his  trusty  stick, 
and  prepared  to  descend  himself. 

It  was  not  a  very  difficult  task ;  for  there  were  so 
many  projections  and  gable-ends  in  the  way,  that 
they  formed  a  series  of  clumsy  steps,  with  no  greater 
obstacle  than  a  jump  of  some  few  feet  at  last.  Joe, 
with  his  stick  and  bundle  on  his  shoulder,  quickly 
stood  on  the  firm  earth,  and  looked  up  at  the  old 
Maypole,  it  might  be  for  the  last  time. 

He  didn’t  apostrophize  it,  for  he  was  no  great 
scholar.  He  didn’t  curse  it,  for  he  had  little  ill-will 
to  give  to  any  thing  on  earth.  He  felt  more  affec¬ 
tionate  and  kind  to  it  than  ever  he  had  done  in  all 
his  life  before,  so  said  with  all  his  heart,  “God  bless 
you !”  as  a  parting  wish,  and  turned  away. 

He  walked  along  at  a  brisk  pace,  big  with  great 
thoughts  of  going  for  a  soldier  and  dying  in  some 
foreign  country  where  it  was  very  hot  and  sandy, 
and  leaving  God  knows  what  unheard-of  wealth  in 


prize-money  to  Dolly,  who  would  be  very  much  af¬ 
fected  when  she  came  to  know  of  it ;  and  full  of 
such  youthful  visions,  which  were  sometimes  san¬ 
guine  and  sometimes  melancholy,  but  always  had 
her  for  their  main  point  and  centre,  pushed  on  vig¬ 
orously  until  the  noise  of  London  sounded  in  his 
ears,  and  the  Black  Lion  hove  in  sight. 

It  was  only  eight  o’clock  then,  and  very  much  as¬ 
tonished  the  Black  Lion  was,  to  see  him  come  walk¬ 
ing  in  with  dust  upon  his  feet  at  that  early  hour, 
with  no  gray  mare  to  bear  him  company.  But  as 
he  ordered  breakfast  to  be  got  ready  with  all  speed, 
and  on  its  being  set  before  him  gave  indisputable 
tokens  of  a  hearty  appetite,  the  Lion  received  him, 
as  usual,  with  a  hospitable  welcome ;  and  treated 
him  with  those  marks  of  distinction,  which,  as  a 
regular  customer,  and  one  within  the  freemasonry 
of  the  trade,  he  had  a  right  to  claim. 

This  Lion  or  landlord — for  he  was  called  both 
man  and  beast,  by  reason  of  his  having  instructed 
the  artist  who  painted  his  sign,  to  convey  into  the 
features  of  the  lordly  brute  whose  effigy  it  bore,  as 
near  a  counterpart  of  his  own  face  as  his  skill  could 
compass  and  devise — was  a  gentleman  almost  as 
quick  of  apprehension,  and  of  almost  as  subtle  a 
wit,  as  the  mighty  John  himself.  But  the  difference 
between  them  lay  in  this;  that  whereas  Mr.  Willet’s 
extreme  sagacity  and  acuteness  were  the  efforts  of 
unassisted  nature,  the  Lion  stood  indebted,  in  no 
small  amount,  to  beer ;  of  which  he  swigged  such 
copious  draughts,  that  most  of  his  faculties  were 
utterly  drowned  and  washed  away,  except  the  one 
great  faculty  of  sleep,  which  he  retained  in  surpris¬ 
ing  perfection.  The  creaking  Lion  over  the  house 
door  was,  therefore,  to  say  the  truth,  rather  a  drowsy, 
tame,  and  feeble  lion;  and  as  these  social  represent¬ 
atives  of  a  savage  class  are  usually  of  a  conventional 
character  (being  depicted,  for  the  most  part,  in  im¬ 
possible  attitudes  and  of  unearthly  colors)  he  was 
frequently  supposed  by  the  more  ignorant  and  un¬ 
informed  among  the  neighbors,  to  be  the  veritable 
portrait  of  the  host  as  he  appeared  on  the  occasion 
of  some  great  funeral  ceremony  or  public  mourning. 

“What  noisy  fellow  is  that  in  the  next  room?” 
said  Joe,  when  he  had  disposed  of  his  breakfast,  and 
had  washed  and  brushed  himself. 

“A  recruiting  sergeant,”  replied  the  Lion. 

Joe  started  involuntarily.  Here  was  the  very 
thing  he  had  been  dreaming  of,  all  the  way  along. 

“And  I  Avish,”  said  the  Lion,  “he  was  anywhere 
else  but  here.  The  party  make  noise  enough,  but 
don’t  call  for  much.  There’s  great  cry  there,  Mr. 
Willet,  but  \rery  little  wool.  Your  father  wouldn’t 
like  ’em,  I  know.” 

Perhaps  not  much  under  any  circumstances.  Per¬ 
haps  if  he  could  have  known  what  was  passing  at 
that  moment  in  Joe’s  mind,  he  would  have  liked 
them  still  less. 

“  Is  he  recruiting  for  a — for  a  fine  regiment  ?”  said 
Joe,  glancing  at  a  little  round  mirror  that  hung  in 
the  bar. 

“I  belie\re  he  is,”  replied  the  host.  “It’s  much 
the  same  thing,  Avhatever  regiment  lie’s  recruiting 
for.  I’m  told  there  an’t  a  deal  of  difference  between 
a  fine  man  and  another  one,  Avhen  they’re  shot  through 
and  through.” 


104 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“They’re  not  all  shot,”  said  Joe. 

“No,”  the  Lion  answered,  “not  all.  Those  that 
are — supposing  it’s  done  easy — are  the  best  off,  in 
my  opinion.” 

“  Ah !”  retorted  Joe,  “  but  you  don’t  care  for  glory.” 

“  For  what  ?”  said  the  Lion. 

“Glory.” 

“  No,”  returned  the  Lion,  with  supreme  indiffer¬ 
ence.  “  I  don’t.  You’re  right  in  that,  Mr.  Willet. 
When  Glory  comes  here,  and  calls  for  any  thing  to 
drink  and  changes  a  guinea  to  pay  for  it,  I’ll  give  it 
him  for  nothing.  It’s  my  belief,  sir,  that  the  Glory’s 
arms  wouldn’t  do  a  very  strong  business.” 

These  remarks  were  not  at  all  comforting.  Joe 
walked  out,  stopped  at  the  door  of  the  next  room, 
and  listened.  The  sergeant  was  describing  a  mili¬ 
tary  life.  It  was  all  drinking,  he  said,  except  that 
there  were  frequent  intervals  of  eating  and  love- 
making.  A  battle  was  the  finest  thing  in  the  world 
when  your  side  won  it — and  Englishmen  always  did 
that.  “  Supposing  you  should  be  killed,  sir,”  said  a 
timid  voice  in  one  corner.  “  Well,  sir,  supposing  you 
should  be,”  said  the  sergeant,  “  what  then  ?  Your 
country  loves  you,  sir ;  his  Majesty  King  George  the 
Third  loves  you ;  your  memory  is  honored,  revered, 
respected ;  every  body’s  fond  of  you,  and  grateful  to 
you;  your  name’s  wrote  down  at  full  length  in  a 
book  in  the  War  Office.  Damme,  gentlemen,  we  must 
all  die  some  time  or  another,  eh?” 

The  voice  coughed,  and  said  no  more* 

Joe  walked  into  the  room.  A  group  of  half  a  doz¬ 
en  fellows  had  gathered  together  in  the  tap-room, 
and  were  listening  with  greedy  ears.  One  of  them, 
a  carter  in  a  smock-frock,  seemed  wavering  and  dis¬ 
posed  to  enlist.  The  rest,  who  were  by  no  means 
disposed,  strongly  urged  him  to  do  so  (according  to 
the  custom  of  mankind),  backed  the  sergeant’s  argu¬ 
ments,  and  grinned  among  themselves.  “  I  say  noth¬ 
ing,  boys,”  said  the  sergeant,  who  sat  a  little  apart, 
drinking  his  liquor.  “For  lads  of  spirit” — here  he 
cast  an  eye  on  Joe—  “  this  is  the  time.  I  don’t  want 
to  inveigle  you.  The  king’s  not  come  to  that,  I  hope. 
Brisk  young  blood  is  what  we  want ;  not  milk-and- 
water.  We  won’t  take  five  men  out  of  six.  We 
want  top-sawyers,  we  do.  I’m  not  agoing  to  tell 
tales  out  of  school,  but,  damme,  if  every  gentleman’s 
son  that  carries  arms  in  our  corps,  through  being 
under  a  cloud  and  having  little  differences  with  his 
relations,  was  counted  up  ” — here  his  eye  fell  on  Joe 
again,  and  so  good-naturedly,  that  Joe  beckoned  him 
out.  He  came  directly. 

“You’re  a  gentleman,  by  G — !”  was  his  first  re¬ 
mark,  as  he  slapped  him  on  the  back.  “You’re  a 
gentleman  in  disguise.  So  am  I.  Let’s  swear  a 
friendship.” 

Joe  didn’t  exactly  do  that,  but  he  shook  hands 
with  him,  and  thanked  him  for  his  good  opinion. 

“  You  want  to  serve,”  said  his  new  friend.  “You 
shall.  Yon  were  made  for  it.  You  are  one  of  us  by 
nature.  What’ll  you  take  to  drink?” 

“Nothing  just  now,”  replied  Joe,  smiling  faintly. 
“  I  haven’t  quite  made  up  my  mind.” 

“  A  mettlesome  fellow  like  you,  and  not  made  up 
his  mind !”  cried  the  sergeant.  “  Here — let  me  give 
the  bell  a  pull,  and  you’ll  make  up  your  mind  in 
half  a  minute,  I  know.” 


“You’re  right  so  far,”  answered  Joe,  “for  if  you 
pull  the  bell  here,  where  I’m  known,  there’ll  be  an 
end  of  my  soldiering  inclinations  in  no  time.  Look 
in  my  face.  You  see  me,  do  you  ?” 

“  I  do,”  replied  the  sergeant  with  an  oath,  “  and  a 
finer  young  fellow  or  one  better  qualified  to  serve  his 
king  and  country  I  never  set  my — ”  he  used  an  ad¬ 
jective  in  this  place — “  eyes  on.” 

“  Thank  you,”  said  Joe,  “  I  didn’t  ask  you  for  want 
of  a  compliment,  but  thank  you  all  the  same.  Do  I 
look  like  a  sneaking  fellow  or  a  liar  ?” 

The  sergeant  rejoined  with  many  choice  assevera¬ 
tions  that  he  didn’t ;  and  that  if  his  (the  sergeant’s) 
own  father  were  to  say  he  did,  he  would  run  the  old 
gentleman  through  the  body  cheerfully,  and  consider 
it  a  meritorious  action. 

Joe  expressed  his  obligations,  and  continued,  “  You 
can  trust  me  then,  and  credit  what  I  say.  I  believe 
I  shall  enlist  in  your  regiment  to-night.  ^The  reason 
I  don’t  do  so  now  is  because  I  don’t  want  until  to¬ 
night,  to  do  what  I  can’t  recall.  Where  shall  I  find 
you,  this  evening  ?” 

His  friend  replied  with  some  unwillingness,  and 
after  much  ineffectual  entreaty  having  for  its  object 
the  immediate  settlement  of  the  business,  that  his 
quarters  would  be  at  the  Crooked  Billet  in  Tower 
Street ;  where  he  would  be  found  waking  until  mid¬ 
night,  and  sleeping  until  breakfast-time  to-morrow. 

“  And  if  I  do  come — which  it’s  a  million  to  one,  I 
shall — when  will  you  take  me  out  of  London  ?”  de¬ 
manded  Joe. 

“  To-morrow  morning  at  half  after  eight  o’clock,” 
replied  the  sergeant.  “  You’ll  go  abroad — a  country 
where  it’s  all  sunshine  and  plunder — the  finest  cli¬ 
mate  in  the  world.” 

“  To  go  abroad,”  said  Joe,  shaking  hands  with  him, 
“  is  the  very  thing  I  want.  You  may  expect  me.” 

“  You’re  the  kind  of  lad  for  us,”  cried  the  sergeant, 
holding  Joe’s  hand  in  his,  in  the  excess  of  his  admi¬ 
ration.  “  You’re  the  boy  to  push  your  fortune.  I 
don’t  say  it  because  I  bear  you  any  envy,  or  would 
take  away  from  the  credit  of  the  rise  you’ll  make, 
but  if  I  had  been  bred  and  taught  like  you,  I’d  have 
been  a  colonel  by  this  time.” 

“  Tush,  man !”  said  Joe,  “  I’m  not  so  young  as  that. 
Needs  must  when  the  devil  drives ;  and  the  devil 
that  drives  me  is  an  empty  pocket  and  an  unhappy 
home.  For  the  present,  good-bye.” 

“  For  king  and  country !”  cried  the  sergeant,  flour¬ 
ishing  his  cap. 

“  For  bread  and  meat !”  cried  Joe,  snapping  his  fin¬ 
gers.  And  so  they  parted. 

He  had  very  little  money  in-his  pocket ;  so  little 
indeed,  that  after  paying  for  his  breakfast  (which  he 
was  too  honest  and  perhaps  too  proud  to  score  up  to 
his  father’s  charge)  he  had  but  a  penny  left.  He  had 
courage,  notwithstanding,  to  resist  all  the  affection¬ 
ate  importunities  of  the  sergeant,  who  waylaid  him 
at  the  door  with  many  protestations  of  eternal  friend¬ 
ship,  and  did  in  particular  request  that  he  would  do 
him  the  favor  to  accept  of  only  one  shilling  as  a  tem¬ 
porary  accommodation.  Rejecting  his  offers  both 
of  cash  and  credit,  Joe  walked  away  with  stick  and 
bundle  as  before,  bent  upon  getting  through  the  day 
as  he  best  could,  and  going  down  to  the  lock-smith’s 
in  the  dusk  of  the  evening ;  for  it  should  go  hard,  he 


A  GOOD-BYE  VISIT  TO  DOLLY. 


105 


had  resolved,  but  he  would  have  a  parting  word  with 
charming  Dolly  Yarden. 

He  went  out  by  Islington  and  so  on  to  Highgate, 
and  sat  on  many  stones  and  gates,  but  there  were 
no  voice»  in  the  bells  to  bid  him  turn.  Since  the 
time  of  noble  Whittington,  fair  flower  of  merchants, 
bells  have  come  to  have  less  sympathy  with  human¬ 
kind.  They  only  ring  for  money  and  on  state  occa¬ 
sions.  Wanderers  have  increased  in  number;  ships 
leave  the  Thames  for  distant  regions,  carrying  from 
stem  to  stern  no  other  cargo ;  the  bells  are  silent ; 
they  ring  out  no  entreaties  or  regrets ;  they  are  used 
to  it  and  have  grown  worldly. 

Joe  bought  a  roll,  and  reduced  his  purse  to  the 
condition  (with  a  difference)  of  that  celebrated  purse 
of  Fortunatus,  which,  whatever  were  its  favored 
owner’s  necessities,  had  one  unvarying  amount  in  it. 
In  these  real  times,  when  all  the  Fairies  are  dead 
and  buried,  there  are  still  a  great  many  purses  which 
possess  that  quality.  The  sum  total  they  contain  is 
expressed  in  arithmetic  by  a  circle,  and  whether  it 
be  added  to  or  multiplied  by  its  own  amount,  the 
result  of  the  problem  is  more  easily  stated  than  any 
known  in  figures. 

Evening  drew  on  at  last.  With  the  desolate  and 
solitary  feeling  of  one  who  had  no  home  or  shelter, 
and  was  alone  utterly  in  the  world  for  the  first  time, 
he  bent  his  steps  toward  the  lock- smith’s  house. 
He  had  delayed  till  now,  knowing  that  Mrs.  Yarden 
sometimes  went  out  alone,  or  with  Miggs  for  her 
sole  attendant,  to  lectures  in  the  evening ;  and  de¬ 
voutly  hoping  that  this  might  be  one  of  her  nights 
of  moral  culture. 

He  had  walked  up  and  down  before  the  house,  on 
the  opposite  side  of  the  way,  two  or  three  times, 
when  as  he  returned  to  it  again,  he  caught  a  glimpse 
of  a  fluttering  skirt  at  the  door.  It  was  Dolly’s — 
to  whom  else  could  it  belong  ?  no  dress  but  hers  had 
such  a  flow  as  that.  He  plucked  up  his  spirits,  and 
followed  it  into  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key. 

His  darkening  the  door  caused  her  to  look  round. 
Oh  that  face !  “  If  it  hadn’t  been  for  that,”  thought 

Joe,  “I  should  never  have  walked  into  poor  Tom 
Cobb.  She’s  twenty  times  handsomer  than  ever. 
She  might  marry  a  lord !” 

He  didn’t  say  this.  He  only  thought  it — perhaps 
looked  it  also.  Dolly  was  glad  to  see  him,  and  was 
so  sorry  her  father  and  mother  were  away  from 
home.  Joe  begged  she  wouldn’t  mention  it  on  any 
account. 

Dolly  hesitated  to  lead  the  way  into  the  parlor, 
for  there  it  was  nearly  dark ;  at  the  same  time  she 
hesitated  to  stand  talking  in  the  workshop,  which 
was  yet  light  and  open  to  the  street.  They  had  got 
by  some  means,  too,  before  the  little  forge ;  and  Joe 
having  her  hand  in  his  (which  he  had  no  right  to 
have,  for  Dolly  only  gave  it  him  to  shake),  it  was 
so  like  standing  before  some  homely  altar  being 
married,  that  it  was  the  most  embarrassing  state  of 
things  in  the  world. 

“I  have  come,”  said  Joe,  “to  say  good-bye — to 
say  good-bye  for  I  don’t  know  how  many  years; 
perhaps  forever.  I  am  going  abroad.” 

Now  this  was  exactly  what  he  should  not  have 
said.  Here  ho  was,  talking  like  a  gentleman  at  large 
who  was  free  to  come  and  go  and  roam  about  the 


world  at  pleasure,  when  that  gallant  coach-maker 
had  vowed  but  the  night  before  that  Miss  Yarden 
held  him  bound  in  adamantine  chains ;  and  had  pos¬ 
itively  stated  in  so  many  words  that  she  was  killing 
him  by  inches,  and  that  in  a  fortnight  more  or  there¬ 
abouts  he  expected  to  make  a  decent  end  and  leave 
the  business  to  his  mother. 

Dolly  released  her  hand  and  said  “  Indeed !”  She 
remarked  in  the  same  breath  that  it  was  a  fine 
night,  and,  in  short,  betrayed  no  more  emotion  than 
the  forge  itself. 

“I  couldn’t  go,”  said  Joe,  “  without  coming  to  see 
you.  I  hadn’t  the  heart  to.” 

Dolly  was  more  sorry  than  she  could  tell,  that  he 
should  have  taken  so  much  trouble.  It  was  such  a 
long  way,  and  he  must  have  such  a  deal  to  do.  And 
how  ivas  Mr.  Willet — that  dear  old  gentleman — ” 

“Is  this  all  you  say!”  cried  Joe. 

All !  Good  gracious,  what  did  the  man  expect ! 
She  was  obliged  to  take  her  apron  in  her  hand  and 
run  her  eyes  along  the  hem  from  corner  to  corner, 
to  keep  herself  from  laughing  in  his  face ;  not  be¬ 
cause  his  gaze  confused  her — not  at  all. 

Joe  had  small  experience  in  love-affairs,  and  had 
no  notion  how  different  young  ladies  are  at  different 
times;  he  had  expected  to  take  Dolly  up  again  at 
the  very  point  where  he  had  left  her  after  that  de¬ 
licious  evening  ride,  and  was  no  more  prepared  for 
such  an  alteration  than  to  see  the  sun  and  moon 
change  places.  He  had  buoyed  himself  up  all  day 
with  an  indistinct  idea  that  she  would  certainly  say 
“  Don’t  go,”  or  “  Don’t  leave  us,”  or  “  Why  do  yon 
go  ?”  or  “  Why  do  you  leave  us  ?”  or  would  give  him 
some  little  encouragement  of  that  sort ;  he  had  even 
entertained  the  possibility  of  her  bursting  into  tears, 
of  her  throwing  herself  into  his  arms,  of  her  fall¬ 
ing  down  in  a  fainting  fit  without  previous  word  or 
sign  ;  but  any  approach  to  such  a  line  of  conduct  as 
this,  had  been  so  far  from  his  thoughts  that  he  could 
only  look  at  her  in  silent  wonder. 

Dolly  in  the  mean  while  turned  to  the  corners  of 
her  apron,  and  measured  tbe  sides,  and  smoothed  out 
the  wrinkles,  and  was  as  silent  as  he.  At  last  after 
a  long  pause,  Joe  said  good-bye.  “  Good-bye  ” — said 
Dolly — with  as  pleasant  a  smile  as  if  he  were  going 
into  the  next  street,  and  were  coming  back  to  sup¬ 
per;  “good-bye.” 

“  Come,”  said  Joe,  putting  out  both  hands,  “Dolly, 
dear  Dolly,  don’t  let  us  part  like  this.  I  love  you 
dearly,  with  all  my  heart  and  soul ;  with  as  much 
truth  and  earnestuess  as  ever  man  loved  woman  in 
this  world,  I  do  believe.  I  am  a  poor  fellow,  as  you 
know — poorer  now  than  ever,  for  I  have  fled  from 
home,  not  being  able  to  bear  it  any  longer,  and  must 
fight  my  own  way  without  help.  You  are  beautiful, 
admired,  are  loved  by  every  body,  are  well  off  and 
happy  ;  and  may  you  ever  be  so !  Heaven  forbid  I 
should  ever  make  you  otherwise ;  but  give  me  a 
word  of  comfort.  Say  something  kind  to  me.  I 
have  no  right  to  expect  it  of  you,  I  know,  but  I  ask 
it  because  I  love  you,  and  shall  treasure  the  slight¬ 
est  word  from  you  all  through  my  life.  Dolly,  dear¬ 
est,  have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me  ?” 

No.  Nothing.  Dolly  was  a  coquette  by  nature, 
and  a  spoiled  child.  She  had  no  notion  of  being 
carried  by  storm  in  this  way.  The  coach -maker 


106 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


would  have  been  dissolved  in  tears,  and  would  have 
knelt  down,  and  called  himself  names,  and  clasped 
his  hands,  and  heat  his  breast,  and  tugged  wildly  at 
his  cravat,  and  done  all  kinds  of  poetry.  Joe  had 
no  business  to  be  going  abroad.  He  had  no  right 
to  be  able  to  do  it.  If  he  was  in  adamantine  chains, 
he  couldn’t. 

“  I  have  said  good-bye,”  said  Dolly,  “  twice.  Take 


while,  thinking  he  would  return,  peeped  out  at  the 
door,  looked  up  the  street  and  down  as  well  as  the 
increasing  darkness  would  allow,  came  in  again, 
waited  a  little  longer,  went  up  stairs  humming  a 
tune,  bolted  herself  in,  laid  her  head  down  on  her 
bed,  and  cried  as  if  her  heart  would  break.  And 
yet  such  natures  are  made  up  of  so  many  contradic¬ 
tions,  that  if  Joe  Willet  had  come  back  that  night, 


IF  TIIEY’RE  A  DREAM,”  BALD  SIM,  “LET  SCULPTURES  HAVE  SUCH  WISIONS,  AND  CHISEL  ’EM  OUT  WHEN  THEY  WAKE.  THIS  IS  REALITY. 

SLEEP  HAS  NO  SUCH  LIMDS  AS  THEM.” 


your  arm  away  directly,  Mr.  Joseph,  or  I’ll  call 
Miggs.” 

“I’ll  not  reproach  you,”  answered  Joe,  “it’s  my 
fault,  no  doubt.  I  have  thought  sometimes  that 
you  didn’t  quite  despise  me,  but  I  was  a  fool  to 
think  so.  Every  one  must,  who  has  seen  the  life  I 
have  led — you  most  of  all.  God  bless  you !” 

He  was  gone,  actually  gone.  Dolly  waited  a  little 


next  day,  next  week,  next  month,  the  odds  are  a  hun¬ 
dred  to  one  she  would  have  treated  him  in  the  very 
same  manner,  and  have  wept  for  it  afterward  with 
the  very  same  distress. 

She  had  no  sooner  left  the  workshop  than  there 
cautiously  peered  out  from  behind  the  chimney  of 
the  forge,  a  face  which  had  already  emerged  from 
the  same  concealment  twice  or  thrice,  unseen,  and 


MR.  CHESTER  AND  HIS  SON  EDWARD. 


107 


which,  after  satisfying  itself  that  it  was  now  alone, 
was  followed  by  a  leg,  a  shoulder,  and  so  on  by  de¬ 
grees,  until  the  form  of  Mr.  Tappertit  stood  confess¬ 
ed,  with  a  brown-paper  cap  stuck  negligently  on  one 
side  of  its  head,  and  its  arms  very  much  akimbo. 

“Have  my  ears  deceived  me,”  said  the  ’prentice, 
“  or  do  I  dream !  Am  I  to  thank  thee,  Fortun’,  or  to 
cus  thee — which  ?” 

He  gravely  descended  from  his  elevation,  took 
down  his  piece  of  looking-glass,  planted  it  against 
the  wall  upon  the  usual  bench,  twisted  his  head 
round,  and  looked  closely  at  his  legs. 

“  If  they’re  a  dream,”  said  Sim,  “let  sculptures  have 
such  wisions,  and  chisel ’em  out  when  they  wake.  This 
is  reality.  Sleep  has  no  such  limbs  as  them.  Tremble, 
Willet,  and  despair.  She’s  mine!  She’s  mine!” 

With  these  triumphant  expressions,  he  seized  a 
hammer  and  dealt  a  heavy  blow  at  a  vise,  which  in 
his  miud’s  eye  represented  the  sconce  or  head  of 
Joseph  Willet.  That  done,  he  burst  into  a  peal  of 
laughter  which  startled  Miss  Miggs  even  in  her  dis¬ 
tant  kitchen,  and  dipping  his  head  into  a  bowl  of 
water,  had  recourse  to  a  jack-towel  inside  the  closet 
door,  which  served  the  double  purpose  of  smothering 
liis  feelings  and  drying  his  face. 

Joe,  disconsolate  and  downhearted,  but  full  of 
courage  too,  on  leaving  the  lock-smith’s  house  made 
the  best  of  his  way  to  the  Crooked  Billet,  and  there 
inquired  for  his  friend  the  sergeant,  who,  expecting 
no  man  less,  received  him  with  open  arms.  In  the 
course  of  five  minutes  after  his  arrival  at  that  house 
of  entertainment,  he  was  enrolled  among  the  gallant 
defenders  of  his  native  land;  and  within  half  an 
hour,  was  regaled  with  a  steaming  supper  of  boiled 
tripe  and  onions,  prepared,  as  his  friend  assured  him 
more  than  once,  at  the  express  command  of  his  most 
Sacred  Majesty  the  King.  To  this  meal,  which  tasted 
very  savory  after  his  long  fasting,  he  did  ample  jus¬ 
tice  ;  and  when  he  had  followed  it  up,  or  down,  with 
a  variety  of  loyal  and  patriotic  toasts,  he  was  con¬ 
ducted  to  a  straw  mattress  in  a  loft  over  the  stable 
and  locked  in  there  for  the  night. 

The  next  morning  he  found  that  the  obliging  care 
of  his  martial  friend  had  decorated  his  hat  with  sun¬ 
dry  party-colored  streamers,  which  made  a  very  live¬ 
ly  appearance;  and  in  company  with  that  officer, 
and  three  other  military  gentlemen  newly  enrolled, 
who  were  under  a  cloud  so  dense  that  it  only  left 
three  shoes,  a  boot,  and  a  coat  and  a  half  visible 
among  them,  repaired  to  the  river-side.  Here  they 
were  joined  by  a  corporal  and  four  more  heroes,  of 
whom  two  were  drunk  and  daring,  and  two  sober 
and  penitent,  but  each  of  whom,  like  Joe,  had  his 
dusty  stick  and  bundle.  The  party  embarked  in  a 
passage -boat  bound  for  Gravesend,  whence  they 
were  to  proceed  on  foot  to  Chatham ;  the  wind  was 
in  their  favor,  and  they  soon  left  London  behind 
them,  a  mere  dark  mist — a  giant  phantom  in  the  air. 

- 

CHAPTER  XXXII. 

LSFORTTTNES,  sait.h  the  adage,  never  come  sin¬ 
gly.  There  is  little  doubt  that  troubles  are 
exceedingly  gregarious  in  their  nature,  and  flying  in 


flocks,  are  apt  to  perch  capriciously;  crowding  on 
the  heads  of  some  poor  wights  until  there  is  not  an 
inch  of  room  left  on  their  unlucky  crowns,  and  tak¬ 
ing  no  more  notice  of  others  who  offer  as  good  rest¬ 
ing-places  for  the  soles  of  their  feet,  than  if  they  had 
no  existence.  It  may  have  happened  that  a  flight 
of  troubles  brooding  over  London,  and  looking  out 
for  Joseph  Willet,  whom  they  couldn’t  find,  darted 
down  hap-hazard  on  the  first  young  man  that  caught 
their  fancy,  and  settled  on  him  instead.  However 
this  may  be,  certain  it  is  that  on  the  very  day  of 
Joe’s  departure  they  swarmed  about  the  ears  of  Ed¬ 
ward  Chester,  and  did  so  buzz  and  flap  their  wings, 
and  persecute  him,  that  he  was  most  profoundly 
wretched. 

It  was  evening,  and  just  eight  o’clock,  when  he 
and  his  father,  having  wine  and  dessert  set  before 
them,  were  left  to  themselves  for  the  first  time  that 
day.  They  had  dined  together,  but  a  third  person 
had  been  present  during  the  meal,  and  until  they 
met  at  table  they  had  not  seen  each  other  since  the 
previous  night. 

Edward  was  reserved  and  silent,  Mr.  Chester  was 
more  than  usually  gay ;  but  not  caring,  as  it  seemed, 
to  open  a  conversation  with  one  whose  humor  was 
so  different,  he  vented  the  lightness  of  his  spirit  in 
smiles  and  sparkling  looks,  and  made  no  effort  to 
awaken  his  attention.  So  they  remained  for  some 
time :  the  father  lying  on  a  sofa  with  his  accustomed 
air  of  graceful  negligence ;  the  sou  seated  opposite 
to  him  with  downcast  eyes,  busied,  it  was  plain,  with 
painful  and  uneasy  thoughts. 

“My  dear  Edward,”  said  Mr.  Chester  at  length, 
with  a  most  engaging  laugh,  “  do  not  extend  your 
drowsy  influence  to  the  decanter.  Suffer  that  to  cir¬ 
culate,  let  your  spirits  be  never  so  stagnant.” 

Edward  begged  his  pardon,  passed  it,  and  relapsed 
into  his  former  state. 

“  You  do  wrong  not  to  fill  your  glass,”  said  Mr. 
Chester,  holding  up  his  own  before  the  light.  “  Wine 
in  moderation— not  in  excess,  for  that  makes  men 
ugly — has  a  thousand  pleasant  influences.  It  bright¬ 
ens  the  eye,  improves  the  voice,  imparts  a  new  vi¬ 
vacity  to  one’s  thoughts  and  conversation:  you 
should  try  it,  Ned.” 

“Ah  father!”  cried  his  son,  “if — ” 

“  My  good  fellow,”  interposed  the  parent  hastily, 
as  he  set  down  his  glass,  and  raised  his  eyebrows 
with  a  startled  and  horrified  expression,  “  for  Heav¬ 
en’s  sake  don’t  call  me  by  that  obsolete  and  ancient 
name.  Have  some  regard  for  delicacy.  Am  I  gray, 
or  wrinkled,  do  I  go  on  crutches,  have  I  lost  my 
teeth,  that  you  adopt  such  a  mode  of  address  ?  Good 
God,  how  very  coarse !” 

“  I  was  about  to  speak  to  you  from  my  heart,  sir,” 
returned  Edward,  “  in  the  confidence  which  should 
subsist  between  us;  and  you  check  me  in  the  out¬ 
set.” 

“  Now  do,  Ned,  do  not,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  raising 
his  delicate  hand  imploringly,  “  talk  in  that  mon¬ 
strous  manner.  About  to  speak  from  your  heart. 
Don’t  you  know  that  the  heart  is  an  ingenious  part 
of  our  formation  —  the  centre  of  the  blood-vessels 
and  all  that  sort  of  thing — which  has  no  more  to  do 
with  what  you  say  or  think,  than  your  knees  have  ? 
How  can  you  be  so  very  vulgar  and  absurd  ?  These 


108 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


anatomical  allusions  should  he  left  to  gentlemen  of 
the  medical  profession.  They  are  really  not  agreea¬ 
ble  in  society.  You  quite  surprise  me,  Ned.” 

“Well!  there  are  no  such  things  to  wound,  or 
heal,  or  have  regard  for.  I  know  your  creed,  sir, 
and  will  say  no  more,”  returned  his  son. 

“  There  again,”  said  Mr.  Chester,  sipping  his  wine, 
“you  are  wrong.  I  distinctly  say  there  are  such 
things.  We  know  there  are.  The  hearts  of  animals 
— of  bullocks,  sheep,  and  so  forth — are  cooked  and 
devoured,  as  I  am  told,  by  the  lower  classes,  with  a 
vast  deal  of  relish.  Men  are  sometimes  stabbed  to 
the  heart,  shot  to  the  heart ;  but  as  to  speaking  from 
the  heart,  or  to  the  heart,  or  being  warm-hearted,  or 
cold-hearted,  or  broken-hearted,  or  being  all  heart, 
or  having  no  heart  —  pah!  these  things  are  non¬ 
sense,  Ned.” 

“No  doubt,  sir,”  returned  his  son,  seeing  that  he 
paused  for  him  to  speak.  “  No  doubt.” 

“  There’s  Haredale’s  niece,  your  late  flame,”  said 
Mr.  Chester,  as  a  careless  illustration  of  his  mean¬ 
ing.  “No  doubt  in  your  mind  she  was  all  heart 
once.  Now  she  has  none  at  all.  Yet  she  is  the 
same  person,  Ned,  exactly.” 

“  She  is  a  changed  person,  sir,”  cried  Edward,  red¬ 
dening  ;  “  and  changed  by  vile  means,  I  believe.” 

“  You  have  had  a  cool  dismissal,  have  you  ?”  said 
his  father.  “Poor  Ned!  I  told  you  last  night  what 
•would  happen.  May  I  ask  you  for  the  nut-crack¬ 
ers  ?” 

“She  has  been  tampered  with,  and  most  treach¬ 
erously  deceived,”  cried  Edward,  rising  from  his 
seat.  “  I  never  will  believe  that  the  knowledge  of 
my  real  position,  given  her  by  myself,  has  worked 
this  chapge.  I  know  she  is  beset  and  tortured.  But 
though  our  contract  is  at  an  end,  and  broken  past 
all  redemption ;  though  I  charge  upon  her  wrnnt  of 
firmness  and  want  of  truth,  both  to  herself  and  me  ; 
I  do  not  now,  and  never  will  believe,  that  any  sor¬ 
did  motive,  or  her  own  unbiased  will,  has  led  her 
to  this  course — never!” 

“  You  make  me  blush,”  returned  his  father  gayly, 
“  for  the  folly  of  your  nature,  in  which — but  we 
never  know  ourselves — I  devoutly  hope  there  is  no 
reflection  of  my  own.  With  regard  to  the  young 
lady  herself,  she  has  done  what  is  very  natural  and 
proper,  my  dear  fellow ;  what  you  yourself  proposed, 
as  I  learn  from  Haredale;  and  what  I  predicted — 
with  no  great  exercise  of  sagacity — she  would  do. 
She  supposed  you  to  be  rich,  or  at  least  quite  rich 
enough ;  and  found  you  poor.  Marriage  is  a  civil 
contract ;  people  marry  to  better  their  worldly  con¬ 
dition  and  improve  appearances ;  it  is  an  affair  of 
house  and  furniture,  of  liveries,  servants,  equipage, 
and  so  forth.  The  lady  being  poor  and  you  poor 
also,  there  is  an  end  of  the  matter.  You  can  not 
enter  upon  these  considerations,  and  have  no  man¬ 
ner  of  business  with  the  ceremony.  I  drink  her 
health  in  this  glass,  and  respect  and  honor  her  for 
her  extreme  good  sense.  It  is  a  lesson  to  you.  Fill 
yours,  Ned.” 

“  It  is  a  lesson,”  returned  his  son,  “  by  which  I 
hope  I  may  never  profit,  and  if  years  and  experience 
impress  it  on — ” 

“  Don’t  say  on  the  heart,”  interposed  his  father. 

“  On  men  whom  the  world  and  its  hypocrisy  have 


spoiled,”  said  Edward,  warmly ;  “Heaven  keep  me 
from  its  knowledge.” 

“  Come,  sir,”  returned  his  father,  raising  himself 
a  little  on  the  sofa,  and  looking  straight  toward 
him  ;  “  we  have  had  enough  of  this.  Remember,  if 
you  please,  your  interest,  your  duty,  your  moral  ob¬ 
ligations,  your  filial  affections,  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing  which  it  is  so  very  delightful  and  charming 
to  reflect  upon  ;  or  you  will  repent  it.” 

“  I  shall  never  repent  the  preservation  of  my  self- 
respect,  sir,”  said  Edward.  “  Forgive  me  if  I  say 
that  I  will  not  sacrifice  it  at  your  bidding,  and  that 
I  will  not  pursue  the  track  which  you  would  have 
me  take,  and  to  which  the  secret  share  you  have 
had  in  this  late  separation  tends.” 

His  father  rose  a  little  higher  still,  and  looking  at 
him  as  though  curious  to  know  if  he  were  quite  re¬ 
solved  and  earnest,  dropped  gently  down  again,  and 
said  in  the  calmest  voice — eating  his  nuts  mean¬ 
while, 

“Edward,  my  father  had  a  son,  who  being  a  fool 
like  you,  and,  like  you,  entertaining  low  and  diso¬ 
bedient  sentiments,  he  disinherited  and  cursed  one 
morning  after  breakfast.  The  circnmstance  occurs 
to  me  with  a  singular  clearness  of  recollection  this 
evening.  I  remember  eating  muffins  at  the  time, 
with  marmalade.  H'e  led  a  miserable  life  (the  son, 

I  mean)  and  died  early;  it  was  a  happy  release  on 
all  accounts ;  he  degraded  the  family  very  much.  It 
is  a  sad  circumstance,  Edward,  when  a  father  finds 
it  necessary  to  resort  to  such  strong  measures.” 

“  It  is,”  replied  Edward,  “  and  it  is  sad  when  a 
son,  proffering  him  his  love  and  duty  in  their  best 
and  truest  sense,  finds  himself  repelled  at  every  turn, 
and  forced  to  disobey.  Dear  father,”  he  added,  more 
earnestly,  though  in  a  gentler  tone,  “  I  have  reflected 
many  times  on  what  occurred  between  us  when  we 
first  discussed  this  subject.  Let  there  be  a  confi¬ 
dence  between  us ;  not  in  terms,  but  truth.  Hear 
what  I  have  to  say.” 

“As  I  anticipate  what  it  is,  and  can  not  fail  to  do 
so,  Edward,”  returned  his  father  coldly,  “  I  decline. 
I  couldn’t  possibly.  I  am  sure  it  would  put  me  out 
of  temper,  which  is  a  state  of  mind  I  can’t  endure. 
If  you  intend  to  mar  my  plans  for  your  establish¬ 
ment  in  life,  and  the  preservation  of  that  gentility 
and  becoming  pride,  which  our  family  have  so  long 
sustained — if,  in  short,  you  are  resolved  to  take  your 
own  course,  you  must  take  it,  and  my  curse  with  it. 
I  am  very  sorry,  but  there’s  really  no  alternative.” 

“  The  curse  may  pass  your  lips,”  said  Edward, 
“but  it  will  be  but  empty  breath.  I  do  not  believe 
that  any  man  on  earth  has  greater  power  to  call  one 
down  upon  his  fellow — least  of  all,  upon  his  own 
child — than  he  has  to  make  one  drop  of  rain  or 
flake  of  snow  fall  from  the  clouds  above  us  at  his 
impious  bidding.  Beware,  sir,  what  you  do.” 

“  You  are  so  very  irreligious,  so  exceedingly  un- 
dutiful,  so  horribly  profane,”  rejoined  his  father, 
turning  his  face  lazily  toward  him,  and  cracking  an¬ 
other  nut,  “that  I  positively  must  interrupt  you 
here.  It  is  quite  impossible  we  can  continue  to  go 
on,  upon  such  terms  as  these.  If  you  will  do  mo  the 
favor  to  ring  the  bell,  the  servant  will  show  you  to 
the  door.  Return  to  this  roof  no  more,  I  bog  you. 
Go,  sir,  since  you  have  no  moral  sense  remaining ; 


GLORIES  OF  TEE  MAYPOLE  KITCHEN. 


109 


and  go  to  the  Devil,  at  my  express  desire.  Good- 
day” 

Edward  left  the  room  without  another  word  or 
look,  and  turned  his  hack  upon  the  house  forever. 

The  father’s  face  was  slightly  flushed  and  heated, 
hut  his  manner  was  quite  unchanged,  as  he  rang  the 
hell  again,  and  addressed  the  servant  on  his  entrance. 

“Peak  —  if  that  gentleman  who  has  just  gone 
out — ” 

“  I  heg  your  pardon,  sir,  Mr.  Edward  ?” 

“  Were  there  more  than  one,  dolt,  that  you  ask 
the  question  ?  If  that  gentleman  should  send  here 
for  his  wardrobe,  let  him  have  it,  do  you  hear  ?  If 
he  should  call  himself  at  any  time,  I’m  not  at  home. 
You’ll  tell  him  so,  and  shut  the  door.” 

So,  it  soon  got  whispered  about,  that  Mr.  Chester 
was  very  unfortunate  in  his  son,  who  had  occasioned 
him  great  grief  and  sorrow.  And  the  good  people 
who  heard  this  and  told  it  again,  marveled  the  more 
at  his  equanimity  and  even  temper,  and  said  what 
an  amiable  nature  that  man  must  have,  who,  having 
undergone  so  much,  could  be  so  placid  and  so  calm. 
And  when  Edward’s  name  was  spoken,  Society  shook 
its  head,  and  laid  its  finger  on  its  lip,  and  sighed, 
and  looked  very  grave;  and  those  who  had  sons 
about  his  age,  waxed  wrathful  and  indignant,  and 
hoped,  for  Virtue’s  sake,  that  he  was  dead.  And 
the  world  went  on  turning  round,  as  usual,  for  five 
years,  concerning  -which  this  Narrative  is  silent. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

ONE  wintry  evening,  early  in  the  year  of  our  Lord 
one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty,  a  keen 
north  wind  arose  as  it  grew  dark,  and  night  came  on 
with  black  and  dismal  looks.  A  bitter  storm  of  sleet, 
sharp,  dense,  and  icy-cold,  swept  the  wet  streets,  and 
rattled  on  the  trembling  windows.  Sign -boards, 
shaken  past  endurance  in  their  creaking  frames,  fell 
crashing  on  the  pavement ;  old  tottering  chimneys 
reeled  and  staggered  in  the  blast ;  and  many  a  stee¬ 
ple  rocked  again  that  night,  as  though  the  earth  were 
troubled. 

It  was  not  a  time  for  those  who  could  by  any 
means  get  light  and  warmth,  to  brave  the  fury  of 
the  weather.  In  coffee-houses  of  the  better  sort, 
guests  crowded  round  the  fire,  forgot  to  be  political, 
and  told  each  other  with  a  secret  gladness  that  the 
blast  grew  fiercer  every  minute.  Each  humble  tav¬ 
ern  by  the  water-side  had  its  group  of  uncouth  fig¬ 
ures  round  the  hearth,  who  talked  of  vessels  found¬ 
ering  at  sea,  and  all  hands  lost ;  related  many  a  dis¬ 
mal  tale  of  shipwreck  and  drowned  men,  and  hoped 
that  some  they  knew  were  safe,  and  shook  their 
heads  in  doubt.  In  private  dwellings,  children  clus¬ 
tered  near  the  blaze  ;  listening  with  timid  pleasure 
to  tales  of  ghosts  and  goblins,  and  tall  figures  clad 
in  white  standing  by  bedsides,  and  people  who  had 
gone  to  sleep  in  old  churches  and  being  overlooked 
had  found  themselves  alone  there  at  the  dead  hour 
of  the  night ;  until  they  shuddered  at  the  thought 
ot  the  dark  rooms  up  stairs,  yet  loved  to  hear  the  ! 
wind  moan  too,  and  hoped  it  would  continue  brave¬ 


ly.  From  time  to  time  these  happy  indoor  people 
stopped  to  listen,  or  one  held  up  his  finger  and  cried, 
“  Hark!”  and  then  above  the  rumbling  in  the  chim¬ 
ney,  and  the  fast  pattering  on  the  glass,  was  heard  a 
wailing,  rushing  sound,  which  shook  the  walls  as 
though  a  giant’s  hand  were  on  them  ;  then  a  hoarse 
roar  as  if  the  sea  had  risen ;  then  such  a  whirl  and 
tumult  that  the  air  seemed  mad ;  and  then  with  a 
lengthened  howl,  the  waves  of  wind  swept  on,  and 
left  a  moment’s  interval  of  rest. 

Cheerily,  though  there  were  none  abroad  to  see  it, 
shone  the  Maypole  light  that  evening.  Blessings  on 
the  red — deep,  ruby  glowing  red — old  curtain  of  the 
window ;  blending  into  one  rich  stream  of  bright¬ 
ness,  fire  and  candle,  meat,  drink,  and  company,  and 
gleaming  like  a  jovial  eye  upon  the  bleak  waste  out- 
of-doors  !  Within,  what  carpet  like  its  crunching 
sand,  what  music  merry  as  its  crackling  logs,  what 
perfume  like  its  kitchen’s  dainty  breath,  what  weath¬ 
er  genial  as  its  hearty  warmth !  Blessings  on  the  old 
house,  how  sturdily  it  stood !  How  did  the  vexed 
wind  chafe  and  roar  about  its  stalwart  roof;  how 
did  it  pant  and  strive  with  its  wide  chimneys,  which 
still  poured  forth  from  their  hospitable  throats  great 
clouds  of  smoke,  and  puffed  defiance  in  its  face ;  how, 
above  all,  did  it  drive  and  rattle  at  the  casement, 
emulous  to  extinguish  that  cheerful  glow,  which 
would  not  be  put  down  and  seemed  the  brighter  for 
the  conflict. 

The  profusion  too,  the  rich  and  lavish  bounty,  of 
that  goodly  tavern!  It  was  not  enough  that  one 
fire  roared  and  sparkled  on  its  spacious  hearth ;  in 
the  tiles  which  paved  and  compassed  it,  five  hundred 
flickering  fires  burned  brightly  also.  It  was  not 
enough  that  one  red  curtain  shut  the  wild  night  out, 
and  shed  its  cheerful  influence  on  the  room.  In  ev¬ 
ery  saucepan-lid,  and  candlestick,  and  vessel  of  cop¬ 
per,  brass,  or  tin  that  hung  upon  the  walls,  were 
countless  ruddy  hangings,  flashing  and  gleaming 
with  every  motion  of  the  blaze,  and  offering,  let  the 
eye  wander  where  it  might,  interminable  vistas  of 
the  same  rich  color.  The  old  oak  wainscoting,  the 
beams,  the  chairs,  the  seats,  reflected  it  in  a  deep 
dull  glimmer.  There  were  fires  and  red  curtains  in 
the  very  eyes  of  the  drinkers,  in  their  buttons,  in 
their  liquor,  in  the  pipes  they  smoked. 

Mr.  Willet  sat  in  what  had  been  his  accustomed 
place  five  years  before,  writh  his  eyes  on  the  eternal 
boiler ;  and  had  sat  there  since  the  clock  struck 
eight,  giving  no  other  signs  of  life  than  breathing 
with  a  loud  and  constant  snore  (though  he  was  wide 
awake),  and  from  time  to  time  putting  his  glass  to 
his  lips,  or  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
filling  it  anew.  It  was  now  half-past  ten.  Mr.  Cobb 
and  long  Phil  Parkes  were  his  companions,  as  of  old, 
and  for  two  mortal  hours  and  a  half,  none  of  the  com¬ 
pany  had  pronounced  one  word. 

Whether  people,  by  dint  of  sitting  together  in  the 
same  place  and  the  same  relative  positions,  and  do¬ 
ing  exactly  the  same  things  for  a  great  many  years, 
acquire  a  sixth  sense,  or  some  unknown  power  of  in¬ 
fluencing  each  other  which  serves  them  in  its  stead, 
is  a  question  for  philosophy  to  settle.  But  certain 
it  is  that  old  John  Willet,  Mr.  Parkes,  and  Mr.  Cobb, 
were  one  and  all  firmly  of  opinion  that  they  were 
very  jolly  companions  —  rather  choice  spirits  than 


110 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


otherwise ;  that  they  looked  at  each  other  every  now 
and  then  as  if  there  were  a  perpetual  interchange  of 
ideas  going  on  among  them ;  that  no  man  consider¬ 
ed  himself  or  his  neighbor  by  any  means  silent ;  and 
that  each  of  them  nodded  occasionally  when  he 
caught  the  eye  of  another,  as  if  he  would  say  “You 
have  expressed  yourself  extremely  well,  sir,  in  rela¬ 
tion  to  that  sentiment,  and  I  quite  agree  with  you.” 

The  room  wTas  so  very  warm,  the  tobacco  so  very 
good,  and  the  tire  so  very  soothing,  that  Mr.  Willet 
by  degrees  began  to  doze;  but  as  he  had  perfectly 
acquired,  by  dint  of  long  habit,  the  art  of  smoking 
in  his  sleep,  and  as  his  breathing  was  pretty  much 
the  same,  awake  or  asleep,  saving  that  in  the  latter 
case  he  sometimes  experienced  a  slight  difficulty  in 
respiration  (such  as  a  carpenter  meets  with  when  he 
is  planing  and  comes  to  a  knot),  neither  of  his  com¬ 
panions  was  aware  of  the  circumstance,  until  he  met 
with  one  of  these  impediments  and  was  obliged  to 
try  again. 

“  Johnny’s  dropped  off,”  said  Mr.  Parkes,  in  a 
whisper. 

“  Fast  as  a  top,”  said  Mr.  Cobb. 

Neither  of  them  said  any  more  until  Mr.  Willet 
came  to  another  knot — one  of  surpassing  obduracy 
—  which  bade  fair  to  throw  him  into  convulsions, 
but  which  he  got  over  at  last  without  waking,  by  an 
effort  quite  superhuman. 

“  He  sleeps  uncommon  hard,”  said  Mr.  Cobb. 

Mr.  Parkes,  who  was  possibly  a  hard  sleeper  him¬ 
self,  replied,  with  some  disdain,  “Not  a  bit  on  it;” 
and  dii’ected  his  eyes  toward  a  handbill  pasted  over 
the  chimney-piece,  which  was  decorated  at  the  top 
with  a  wood-cut  representing  a  youth  of  tender  years 
running  away  very  fast,  with  a  bundle  over  his 
shoulder  at  the  end  of  a  stick,  and — to  carry  out  the 
idea — a  finger-post  and  a  mile-stone  beside  him.  Mr. 
Cobb  likewise  turned  his  eyes  in  the  same  direction, 
and  surveyed  the  placard  as  if  that  were  the  first 
time  he  had  ever  beheld  it.  Now,  this  was  a  docu¬ 
ment  which  Mr.  Willet  had  himself  indited  on  the 
disappearance  of  his  son  Joseph,  acquainting  the  no¬ 
bility  and  gentry  and  the  public  iu  general  with  the 
circumstances  of  his  having  left  his  home ;  describ¬ 
ing  his  dress  and  appearance ;  and  offering  a  reward 
of  five  pounds  to  any  person  or  persons  who  would 
pack  him  up  and  return  him  safely  to  the  Maypole 
at  Chigwell,  or  lodge  him  in  any  of  his  Majesty’s 
jails  until  such  time  as  his  father  should  come  and 
claim  him.  In  this  advertisement  Mr.  Willet  had 
obstinately  persisted,  despite  the  advice  and  entreat¬ 
ies  of  his  friends,  in  describing  his  son  as  a  “young 
boy ;”  and  furthermore  as  being  from  eighteen  inch¬ 
es  to  a  couple  of  feet  shorter  than  he  really  was; 
two  circumstances  which  perhaps  accounted,  in  some 
degree,  for  its  never  having  been  productive  of  any 
other  effect  than  the  transmission  to  Chigwell  at  va¬ 
rious  times  and  at  a  vast  expense,  of  some  five-and 
forty  runaways  varying  from  six  years  old  to  twelve. 

Mr.  Cobb  and  Mr.  Parkes  looked  mysteriously  at 
this  composition,  at  each  other,  and  at  old  John. 
From  the  time  he  had  pasted  it  up  with  his  own 
hands,  Mr.  Willet  had  never  by  word  or  sign  alluded 
to  the  subject,  or  encouraged  any  one  else  to  do  so. 
Nobody  had  the  least  notion  what  his  thoughts  or 
opinions  were,  connected  with  it;  whether  he  re¬ 


membered  it  or  forgot  it ;  whether  he  had  any  idea 
that  such  an  event  had  ever  taken  place.  Therefore, 
even  while  he  slept,  no  one  ventured  to  refer  to  it  in 
his  presence ;  and  for  such  sufficient  reasons,  these 
his  chosen  friends  were  silent  now. 

Mr.  Willet  had  got  by  this  time  into  such  a  com¬ 
plication  of  knots,  that  it  was  perfectly  clear  he 
must  wake  or  die.  He  chose  the  former  alternative, 
and  opened  his  eyes. 

“  If  he  don’t  come  in  five  minutes,”  said  John,  “  I 
shall  have  supper  without  him.” 

The  antecedent  of  this  pronoun  had  been  men¬ 
tioned  for  the  last  time  at  eight  o’clock.  Messrs. 
Parkes  and  Cobb  being  used  to  this  style  of  conver¬ 
sation,  replied  without  difficulty  that  to  be  sure  Sol¬ 
omon  was  very  late,  and  they  wondered  what  had 
happened  to  detain  him. 

“He  au’t  blown  away,  I  suppose,”  said  Parkes. 
“It’s  enough  to  carry  a  man  of  his  figure  off  his 
legs,  and  easy  too.  Do  you  hear  it  ?  It  blows  great 
guns,  indeed.  There’ll  be  many  a  crash  in  the  For¬ 
est  to-night,  I  reckon,  and  many  a  broken  branch 
upon  the  ground  to-morrow.” 

“  It  won’t  break  any  thing  in  the  Maypole,  I  take 
it,  sir,”  returned  old  John.  “Let  it  try.  I  give  it 
leave — what’s  that  ?” 

“  The  wind,”  cried  Parkes.  “  It’s  howling  like  a 
Christian,  and  has  been  all  night  long.” 

“Did  you  ever,  sir,”  asked  John,  after  a  minute’s 
contemplation,  “hear  the  wind  say  1  Maypole?”’ 

“  Why,  what  man  ever  did  ?”  said  Parkes. 

“Nor  ‘ ahoy,’  perhaps?”  added  John. 

“  No.  Nor  that  either.” 

“Very  good,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  perfectly  un¬ 
moved;  “then  if  that  was  the  wind  just  now,  and 
you’ll  wait  a  little  time  without  speaking,  you’ll 
hear  it  say  both  words  very  plain.” 

Mr.  Willet  was  right.  After  listening  for  a  few 
moments,  they  could  clearly  hear,  above  the  roar 
and  tumult  out-of-doors,  this  shout  repeated;  and 
that  with  a  shrillness  and  energy,  which  denoted 
that  it  came  from  some  person  in  great  distress  or 
terror.  They  looked  at  each  other,  turned  pale,  and 
held  their  breath.  No  man  stirred. 

It  was  in  this  emergency  that  Mr.  Willet  displayed 
something  of  that  strength  of  mind  and  plenitude  of 
mental  resource,  w  hich  rendered  him  the  admiration 
of  all  his  friends  and  neighbors.  After  looking  at 
Messrs.  Parkes  and  Cobb  for  some  time  in  silence,  he 
clapped  his  two  hands  to  his  cheeky,  and  sent  forth 
a  roar  which  made  the  glasses  dance  and  rafters  ring 
— a  long-sustained,  discordant  bellow,  that  rolled  on¬ 
ward  with  the  wind,  and  startling  every  echo,  made 
the  night  a  hundred  times  more  boisterous — a  deep, 
loud,  dismal  bray,  that  sounded  like  a  human  gong. 
Then,  writh  every  vein  in  his  head  and  face  swollen 
with  the  great  exertion,  and  his  countenance  suffused 
with  a  lively  purple,  he  drew  a  little  nearer  to  the 
fire,  and  turning  his  back  upon  it,  said  with  dignity: 

“  If  that’s  any  comfort  to  any  body,  they’re  wel¬ 
come  to  it.  If  it  an’t,  I’m  sorry  for  ’em.  If  either 
of'you  two  gentlemen  likes  to  go  out  and  see  what’s 
the  matter,  you  can.  I’m  not  curious,  myself.” 

While  he  spoke  the  cry  drew  nearer  and  nearer, 
footsteps  passed  the  window,  the  latch  of  the  door 
was  raised,  it  opened,  was  violently  shut  again,  and 


SOLOMON  DAISY’S  FRIGHT. 


Ill 


Solomon  Daisy,  with  a  lighted  lantern  in  his  hand, 
and  the  rain  streaming  from  his  disordered  dress, 
dashed  into  the  room. 

A  more  complete  picture  of  terror  than  the  little 
mail  presented,  it  would  be  difficult  to  imagine. 
The  perspiration  stood  in  beads  upon  his  face,  his 
knees  knocked  together,  his  every  limb  trembled, 
the  power  of  articulation  was  quite  gone ;  and  there 
he  stood,  panting  for  breath,  gazing  on  them  with 
such  livid  ashy  looks,  that  they  were  infected  with 
his  fear,  though  ignorant  of  its  occasion,  and,  reflect¬ 
ing  his  dismayed  and  horror-stricken  visage,  stared 
back  again  without  venturing  to  question  him;  un¬ 
til  old  John  Willet,  in  a  fit  of  temporary  insanity, 
made  a  dive  at  his  cravat,  and,  seizing  him  by  that 
portion  of  his  dress,  shook  him  to  and  fro  until  his 
very  teeth  appeared  to  rattle  in  his  head. 

“  Tell  us  what’s  the  matter,  sir,”  said  John,  “  or 
I’ll  kill  you.  Tell  us  what’s  the  matter,  sir,  or  in 
another  second  I’ll  have  your  head  under  the  biler. 
How  dare  you  look  like  that  ?  Is  any  body  a-fol- 
lowing  of  you?’  What  do  you  mean?  Say  some¬ 
thing,  or  I’ll  be  the  death  of  you,  I  will.” 

Mr.  Willet,  in  his  frenzy,  was  so  near  keeping  his 
word  to  the  very  letter  (Solomon  Daisy’s  eyes  al¬ 
ready  beginning  to  roll  in  an  alarming  manner,  and. 
certain  guttural  sounds,  as  of  a  choking  man,  to  is¬ 
sue  from  his  throat),  that  the  two  by-standers,  re¬ 
covering  in  some  degree,  plucked  him  off  his  victim 
by  main  force,  and  placed  the  little  clerk  of  Cliig- 
well  in  a  chair.  Directing  a  fearful  gaze  all  round 
the  room,  he  implored  them  in  a  faint  voice  to  give 
him  some  drink;  and  above  all  to  lock  the  house 
door  and  close  and  bar  the  shutters  of  the  room, 
without  a  moment’s  loss  of  time.  The  latter  request 
did  not  tend  to  re-assure  his  hearers,  or  to  fill  them 
with  the  most  comfortable  sensations;  they  com¬ 
plied  with  it,  however,  with  the  greatest  expedition  ; 
and  having  handed  him  a  bumper  of  brandy-and- 
water,  nearly  boiling  hot,  waited  to  hear  what  he 
might  have  to  tell  them. 

“Oh,  Johnny,”  said  Solomon,  shaking  him  by  the 
hand.  “Oh,  Parkes.  Oh,  Tommy  Cobb.  Why  did 
I  leave  this  house  to-night!  On  the  nineteenth  of 
March — of  all  nights  in  the  year,  on  the  nineteenth 
of  March !” 

They  all  drew  closer  to  the  fire.  Parkes,  who  was 
nearest  to  the  door,  started  and  looked  over  his 
shoulder.  Mr.  Willet,  with  great  indignation,  in¬ 
quired  what  the  devil  he  meant  by  that — and  then 
said,  “God  forgive  me!”  and  glanced  over  his  own 
shoulder,  and  came  a  little  nearer. 

“  When  I  left  here  to-night,”  said  Solomon  Daisy, 
“  I  little  thought  what  day  of  the  month  it  was.  I 
have  never  gone  alone  into  the  chnrch  after  dark  on 
this  day,  for  seven-and-twenty  years.  I  have  heard 
it  said  that  as  we  keep  our  birthdays  when  we  are 
alive,  so  the  ghosts  of  dead  people,  who  are  not  easy 
in  their  graves,  keep  the  day  they  died  upon.— How 
the  wind  roars!” 

Nobody  spoke.  All  eyes  were  fastened  on  Solo¬ 
mon. 

“I  might  have  known,”  he  said,  “what  night  it 
was,  by  the  foul  weather.  ,  There’s  no  such  night  in 
the  whole  year  round  as  this  is,  always.  I  never 
sleep  quietly  in  my  bed  on  the  nineteenth  of  March.” 


“  Go  on,”  said  Tom  Cobb,  in  a  low  voice.  “  Nor  I 
neither.” 

Solomon  Daisy  raised  his  glass  to  his  lips ;  put  it 
down  upon  the  floor  with  such  a  trembling  hand 
that  the  spoon  tinkled  in  it  like  a  little  bell ;  and 
continued  thus : 

“Have  I  ever  said  that  we  are  always  brought 
back  to  this  subject  in  some  strange  way,  when  the 
nineteenth  of  this  month  comes  round?  Do  you 
suppose  it  was  by  accident,  I  forgot  to  wind  up  the 
church  clock  ?  I  never  forgot  it  at  any  other  time, 
though  it’s  such  a  clumsy  thing  that  it  has  to  be 
wound  up  every  day.  Why  should  it  escape  my 
memory  on  this  day  of  all  others? 

“I  made  as  much  haste  down  there  as  I  could 
when  I  went  from  here,  but  I  had  to  go  home  first 
for  the  keys;  and  the  wind  and  rain  being  dead 
against  me  all  the  way,  it  was  pretty  well  as  much 
as  I  could  do  at  times  to  keep  my  legs.  I  got  there 
at  last,  opened  the  church  door,  and  went  in.  I 
had  not  met  a  soul  all  the  way,  and  you  may  judge 
whether  it  was  dull  or  not.  Neither  of  you  would 
bear  me  company.  If  you  could  have  known  what 
was  to  come,  you’d  have  been  in  the  right. 

“The  wind  was  so  strong,  that  it  was  as  much  as 
I  could  do  to  shut  the  church  door  by  putting  my 
whole  weight  against  it ;  and  even  as  it  was,  it  burst 
wide  open  twice,  with  such  strength  that  any  of  you 
would  have  sworn,  if  you  had  been  leaning  against 
it,  as  I  was,  that  somebody  was  pushing  on  the  other 
side.  •  However,  I  got  the  key  turned,  went  into  the 
belfry,  and  wound  up  the  clock — which  was  very 
near  run  down,  and  would  have  stood  stock-still  in 
half  an  hour. 

“As  I  took  up  my  lantern  again  to  leave  the 
church,  it  came  upon  me  all  at  once  that  this  was 
the  nineteenth  of  March.  It  came  upon  me  with  a 
kind  of  shock,  as  if  a  hand  had  struck  the  thought 
upon  my  forehead;  at  the  very  same  moment,  I 
heard  a  voice  outside  the  tower — rising  from  among 
the  graves — ” 

Here  old  John  precipitately  interrupted  the  speak¬ 
er,  and  begged  that  if  Mr.  Parkes  (who  was  seated 
opposite  to  him  and  was  staring  directly  over  his 
head)  saw  any  thing,  he  would  have  the  goodness  to 
mention  it.  Mr.  Parkes  apologized,  and  remarked 
that  he  was  only  listening;  to  which  Mr.  Willet  an¬ 
grily  retorted,  that  his  listening  with  that  kind  of 
expression  in  his  face  was  not  agreeable,  and  that 
if  he  couldn’t  look  like  other  people,  he  had  better 
put  his  pocket-handkerchief  over  his  head.  Mr. 
Parkes  with  great  submission  pledged  himself  to 
do  so,  if  again  required,  and  John  Willet  turning  to 
Solomon  desired  him  to  proceed.  After  waiting  un¬ 
til  a  violent  gust  of  wind  and  rain,  which  seemed  to 
shake  even  that  sturdy  house  to  its  foundation,  had 
passed  away,  the  little  man  complied  : 

“Never  tell  me  that  it  was  my  fancy,  or  that  it 
was  any  other  sound  which  I  mistook  for  that  I  tell 
you  of.  I  heard  the  wind  whistle  through  the  arch¬ 
es  of  the  church.  I  heard  the  steeple  strain  and 
creak.  I  heard  the  rain  as  it  came  driving  against 
the  walls.  I  felt  the  bells  shake.  I  saw  the  ropes 
sway  to  and  fro.  And  I  heard  that  voice.” 

“What  did  it  say?”  asked  Tom  Cobb. 

“  I  don’t  know  what ;  I  don’t  know  that  it  spoke. 


112 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


It  gave  a  kind  of  cry,  as  any  one  of  us  might  do,  if  j 
something  dreadful  followed  us  in  a  dream,  and  came  | 
upon  us  unawares;  and  then  it  died  off:  seeming  to 
pass  quite  round  the  church.” 

“I  don’t  see  much  in  that,”  said  Johu,  drawing  a 
long  breath,  and  looking  round  him  like  a  man  who 
felt  relieved. 

“Perhaps  not,”  returned  his  friend,  “but  that’s 
not  all.” 

“  What  more  do  you  mean  to  say,  sir,  is  to  come  ?” 
asked  Johu,  pausing  in  the  act  of  wiping  his  face 
upon  his  apron.  “  What  are  you  agoing  to  tell  us 
of  next  f” 

“  What  I  saw.” 

“  Saw !”  echoed  all  three,  bending  forward. 

“  When  I  opened  the  church  door  to  come  out,” 
said  the  little  man,  with  an  expression  of  face  which 
bore  ample  testimony  to  the  sincerity  of  his  convic¬ 
tion,  “  when  I  opened  the  church  door  to  come  out, 
which  I  did  suddenly,  for  I  wanted  to  get  it  shut 
again  before  another  gust  of  wind  came  up,  there 
crossed  me — so  close,  that  by  stretching  out  my  fin¬ 
ger  I  could  have  touched  it — something  in  the  like¬ 
ness  of  a  man.  It  was  bare-headed  to  the  storm.  It 
turned  its  face  without  stopping,  and  fixed  its  eyes 
on  mine.  It  was  a  ghost — a  spirit.” 

“  Whose  ?”  they  all  three  cried  together. 

In  the  excess  of  his  emotion  (for  he  fell  back  trem¬ 
bling  in  his  chair,  and  waved  his  hand  as  if  entreat¬ 
ing  them  to  question  him  no  further),  his  answer 
was  lost  on  all  but  old  John  Willet,  who  happened 
to  be  seated  close  beside  him. 

“  Who !”  cried  Parkes  and  Tom  Cobb,  looking  ea¬ 
gerly  by  turns  at  Solomon  Daisy  and  at  Mr.  Willet. 

“  Who  was  it  ?” 

“Gentlemen,”  said  Mr. Willet,  after  a  long  pause, 

“  you  needn’t  ask.  The  likeness  of  a  murdered  man. 
This  is  the  nineteenth  of  March.” 

A  profound  silence  ensued. 

“If  you’ll  take  my  advice,”  said  John,  “we  had 
better,  one  and  all,  keep  this  a  secret.  Such  tales 
would  not  be  liked  at  the  Warren.  Let  us  keep  it 
to  ourselves  for  the  present  time  at  all  events,  or  we 
may  get  into  trouble,  and  Solomon  may  lose  his 
place.  Whether  it  was  really  as  he  says,  or  wheth¬ 
er  it  wasn’t,  is  no  matter.  Right  or  wrong,  nobody 
would  believe  him.  As  to  the  probabilities,  I  don’t 
myself  think,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  eying  the  corners  of 
the  room  in  a  manner  which  showed  that,  like  some 
other  philosophers,  he  was  not  quite  easy  in  his  the¬ 
ory,  “  that  a  ghost  as  had  been  a  man  of  sense  in  his 
lifetime,  would  be  out  a-walking  in  such  weather — * 
I  only  know  that  I  wouldn’t,  if  I  was  one.” 

But  this  heretical  doctrine  was  strongly  opposed 
by  the  other  three,  who  quoted  a  great  many  prece¬ 
dents  to  show  that  bad  weather  was  the  very  time 
for  such  appearances ;  and  Mr.  Parkes  (who  had  had 
a  ghost  in  his  family,  by  the  mother’s  side)  argued 
the  matter  with  so  much  ingenuity  and  force  of  il¬ 
lustration,  that  John  was  only  saved  from  having 
to  retract  his  opinion  by  the  opportune  appearance 
of  supper,  to  which  they  applied  themselves  with  a 
dreadful  relish.  Even  Solomon  Daisy  himself,  by 
dint  of  the  elevating  influences  of  fire,  lights,  bran¬ 
dy,  and  good  company,  so  far  recovered  as  to  handle 
his  knife  and  fork  in  a  highly  creditable  manner, 


and  to  display  a  capacity  both  of  eating  and  drink¬ 
ing,  such  as  banished  all  fear  of  his  having  sustained 
any  lasting  injury  from  his  fright. 

Supper  done,  they  crowded  round  the  fire  again, 
and,  as  is  common  on  such  occasions,  propounded  all 
manner  of  leading  questions  calculated  to  surround 
the  story  with  new  horrors  and  surprises.  But  Sol¬ 
omon  Daisy,  notwithstanding  these  temptations,  ad¬ 
hered  so  steadily  to  his  original  account,  and  repeat¬ 
ed  it  so  often,  with  such  slight  variations,  and  with 
such  solemn  asseverations  of  its  truth  and  reality, 
that  his  hearers  were  (with  good  reason)  more  as¬ 
tonished  than  at  first.  As  he  took  John  Willet’s 
view  of  the  matter  in  regard  to  the  propriety  of  not 
bruiting  the  tale  abroad,  unless  the  spirit  should  ap¬ 
pear  to  him  again,  in  which  case  it  would  be  neces¬ 
sary  to  take  immediate  counsel  with  the  clergyman, 
it  was  solemnly  resolved  that  it  should  be  hushed 
up  and  kept  quiet.  And  as  most  men  like  to  have 
a  secret  to  tell  which  may  exalt  their  own  impor¬ 
tance,  they  arrived  at  this  conclusion  with  perfect 
unanimity. 

As  it  was  by  this  time  growing  late,  and  was  long 
past  their  usual  hour  of  separating,  the  cronies  part¬ 
ed  for  the  night.  Solomon  Daisy,  with  a  fresh  can¬ 
dle  in  his  lantern,  repaired  homeward  under  the  es¬ 
cort  of  long  Phil  Parkes  and  Mr.  Cobb,  who  were 
rather  more  nervous  than  himself.  Mr.  Willet,  af¬ 
ter  seeing  them  to  the  door,  returned  to  collect  his 
thoughts  with  the  assistance  of  the  boiler,  and  to 
listen  to  the  storm  of  wind  and  rain,  which  had  not 
yet  abated  one  jot  of  its  fury. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

EFORE  old  John  had  looked  at  the  boiler  quite 
twenty  minutes,  he  got  his  ideas  into  a  focus, 
and  brought  them  to  bear  upon  Solomon  Daisy’s 
story.  The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  im¬ 
pressed  he  became  with  a  sense  of  his  own  wisdom, 
and  a  desire  that  Mr.  Haredale  should  be  impressed 
with  it  likewise.  At  length,  to  the  end  that  he  might 
sustain  a  principal  and  important  character  in  the 
affair ;  and  might  have  the  start  of  Solomon  and  his 
two  friends,  through  whose  means  he  knew  the  ad¬ 
venture,  with  a  variety  of  exaggerations,  would  be 
known  to  at  least  a  score  of  people,  and  most  likely 
to  Mr.  Haredale  himself,  by  breakfast-time  to-mor¬ 
row  ;  he  determined  to  repair  to  the  Warren  before 
going  to  bed.  ' 

“He’s  my  landlord,”  thought  John,  as  he  took  a 
candle  in  his  hand,  and  setting  it  down  in  a  corner 
out  of  the  wind’s  way,  opened  a  casement  in  the 
rear  of  the  house,  looking  toward  the  stables.  “We 
haven’t  met  of  late  years  so  often  as  we  used  to  do 
— changes  are  taking  place  in  the  family — it’s  de¬ 
sirable  that  I  should  stand  as  well  with  them,  in 
point  of  dignity,  as  possible — the  whispering  about 
of  this  here  tale  will  anger  him — it’s  good  to  have 
confidences  with  a  gentleman  of  his  natur’,  and  set 
one’s  self  right  besides.  Halloo  there !  Hugh  — 
Hugh.  Hal-loo!” 

When  he  had  repeated  this  shout  a  dozen  times, 
and  started  every  pigeon  from  its  slumbers,  a  door 


JOHN  WILLET  AND  HUGH. 


113 


in  one  of  the  ruinous  old  buildings  opened,  and  a 
rough  voice  demanded  what  was  amiss  now,  that  a 
man  couldn’t  even  have  his  sleep  in  quiet. 

“  What !  Haven’t  you  sleep  enough,  growler,  that 
you’re  not  to  be  knocked  up  for  once  ?”  said  John. 

“  No,”  replied  the  voice,  as  the  speaker  yawned 
and  shook  himself.  “  Not  half  enough.” 

“  I  don’t  know  how  you  can  sleep,  with  the  wind 
a  bellowsing  and  roaring  about  you,  making  the  tiles 
fly  like  a  pack  of  cards,”  said  John;  “but  no  mat¬ 
ter  for  that.  Wrap  yourself  up  in  something  or  an¬ 
other,  and  come  here,  for  you  must  go  as  far  as  the 
Warren  with  me.  And  look  sharp  about  it.” 

Hugh,  with  much  low  growling  and  muttering, 
weut  back  into  his  lair ;  and  presently  re-appeared, 
carrying  a  lantern  and  a  cudgel,  and  enveloped  from 
head  to  foot  in  an  old,  frowzy,  slouching  horse-cloth. 
Mr.  Willet  received  this  figure  at  the  back  door,  and 
ushered  him  into  the  bar,  while  he  wrapped  him¬ 
self  in  sundry  great -coats  and  capes,  and  so  tied 
and  knotted  his  face  in  shawls  and  handkerchiefs, 
that  how  he  breathed  was  a  mystery. 

“You  don’t  take  a  man  out-of-doors  at  near  mid¬ 
night  in  such  weather,  without  putting  some  heart 
into  him,  do  you,  master?”  said  Hugh. 

“  Yes  I  do,  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Willet.  “  I  put  the 
heart  (as  you  call  it)  into  him  when  he  has  brought 
me  safe  home  again,  and  his  standing  steady  on  his 
legs  an’t  of  so  much  consequence.  So  hold  that 
light  up,  if  you  please,  and  go  on  a  step  or  two  be¬ 
fore,  to  show  the  way.” 

Hugh  obeyed  with  a  very  indifferent  grace,  and  a 
longing  glance  at  the  bottles.  Old  John,  laying 
strict  injunctions  on  his  cook  to  keep  the  doors  lock¬ 
ed  in  his  absence,  and  to  open  to  nobody  but  him¬ 
self  on  pain  of  dismissal,  followed  him  into  the  blus¬ 
tering  darkness  out-of-doors. 

The  way  was  wet  and  dismal,  and  the  night  so 
black,  that  if  Mr.  Willet  had  been  his  own  pilot,  he 
would  have  walked  into  a  deep  horse-pond  within  a 
few  hundred  yards  of  his  own  house,  and  would  cer¬ 
tainly  have  terminated  his  career  in  that  ignoble 
sphere  of  action.  But  Hugh,  who  had  a  sight  as 
keen  as  any  hawk’s,  and,  apart  from  that  endow¬ 
ment,  could  have  found  his  way  blindfold  to  any 
place  within  a  dozen  miles,  dragged  old  John  along, 
quite  deaf  to  his  remonstrances,  and  took  his  own 
course  without  the  slightest  reference  to,  or  notice 
of,  his  master.  So  they  made  head  against  the  wind 
as  they  best  could;  Hugh  crushing  the  wet  grass 
beneath  his  heavy  tread,  and  stalking  on  after  his 
ordinary  savage  fashion ;  John  Willet  following  at 
arms -length,  picking  his  steps,  and  looking  about 
him,  now  for  bogs  and  ditches,  and  now  for  such 
stray  ghosts  as  might  be  wandering  abroad,  with 
looks  of  as  much  dismay  and  uneasiness  as  his  im¬ 
movable  face  was  capable  of  expressing. 

At  length  they  stood  upon  the  broad  gravel- walk 
before  the  Warren -house.  The  building  was  pro¬ 
foundly  dark,  and  none  were  moving  near  it  save 
themselves.  From  one  solitary  turret-chamber,  how¬ 
ever,  there  shone  a  ray  of  light;  and  toward  this 
speck  of  comfort  in  the  cold,  cheerless,  silent  scene, 
Mr.  W  illet  bade  his  pilot  lead  him. 

“  The  old  room,”  said  John,  looking  timidly  up¬ 
ward  ;  “  Mr.  Reuben’s  own  apartment,  God  be  with 

8 


us !  I  wonder  his  brother  likes  to  sit  there,  so  late 
at  night — on  this  night  too.” 

“  Why,  where  else  should  he  sit  ?”  asked  Hugh, 
holding  the  lantern  to  his  breast,  to  keep  the  candle 
from  the  wind,  while  he  trimmed  it  with  his  fingers. 
“  It’s  snug  enough,  an’t  it  ?” 

“Snug!”  said  John,  indignantly.  “You  have  a 
comfortable  idea  of  snugness,  you  have,  sir.  Do  you 
know  what  was  done  in  that  room,  you  ruffian  ?” 

“  Why,  what  is  it  the  worse  for  that !”  cried  Hugh, 
looking  into  John’s  fat  face.  “Does  it  keep  out  the 
rain,  and  snow,  and  wind,  the  less  for  that  ?  Is  it 
less  warm  or  dry,  because  a  man  was  killed  there  ? 
Ha,  ha,  ha!  Never  believe  it,  master.  One  man’s 
no  such  matter  as  that  comes  to.” 

Mr.  Willet  fixed  his  dull  eyes  on  his  follower,  and 
began — by  a  species  of  inspiration — to  think  it  just 
barely  possible  that  he  was  something  of  a  danger¬ 
ous  character,  and  that  it  might  be  advisable  to  get 
rid  of  him  one  of  these  days.  He  was  too  prudent 
to  say  any  thing,  with  the  journey  home  before  him  ; 
and  therefore  turned  to  the  iron  gate  before  which 
this  brief  dialogue  had  passed,  and  pulled  the  handle 
of  the  bell  that  hung  beside  it.  The  turret  at  which 
the  light  appeared  being  at  one  corner  of  the  build¬ 
ing,  and  only  divided  from  the  path  by  one  of  the 
garden  -  walks,  upon  which  this  gate  opened,  Mr. 
Haredale  threw  up  the  window  directly,  and  de¬ 
manded  who  was  there. 

“Begging  pardon,  sir,”  said  John,  “I  knew  you 
sat  up  late,  and  made  bold  to  come  round,  having  a 
word  to  say  to  you.” 

“  Willet — is  it  not  ?” 

“  Of  the  Maypole — at  your  service,  sir.” 

Mr.  Haredale  closed  the  window,  and  withdrew. 
He  presently  appeared  at  a  door  in  the  bottom  of 
the  turret,  and  coming  across  the  garden-walk,  un¬ 
locked  the  gate  and  let  them  in. 

“You  are  a  late  visitor,  Willet.  What  is  the  matter?” 

“Nothing  to  speak  of,  sir,”  said  John;  “an  idle  tale, 
I  thought  you  ought  to  know  of;  nothing  more.” 

“  Let  your  man  go  forward  with  the  lantern,  and 
give  me  your  hand.  The  stairs  are  crooked  and 
narrow.  Gently  with  your  light,  friend.  You  swing 
it  like  a  censer.” 

Hugh,  who  had  already  reached  the  turret,  held 
it  more  steadily,  and  ascended  first,  turning  round 
from  time  to  time  to  shed  his  light  downward  on  the 
steps.  Mr.  Haredale  following  next,  eyed  his  low¬ 
ering  face  with  no  great  favor;  and  Hugh,  looking 
down  on  him,  returned  his  glances  with  interest,  as 
they  climbed  the  winding  stairs. 

It  terminated  in  a  little  anteroom  adjoining  that 
from  which  they  had  seen  the  light.  Mr.  Haredale 
entered  first,  and  led  the  way  through  it  into  the 
latter  chamber,  where  he  seated  himself  at  a  writ¬ 
ing-table  from  which  he  had  risen  when  they  had 
rung  the  bell. 

“Come  in,”  he  said,  beckoning  to  old  John,  who 
remained  bowing  at  the  door.  “Not  you,  friend,” 
he  added  hastily  to  Hugh,  who  entered  also.  “  Wil¬ 
let,  why  do  you  bring  that  fellow  here  ?” 

“Why,  sir,”  returned  John,  elevating  his  eye¬ 
brows,  and  lowering  his  voice  to  the  tone  in  which 
the  question  had  been  asked  him,  “he’s  a  good 
guard,  you  see.” 


114 


BAB  NAB Y  BULGE. 


“  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that,”  said  Mr.  Haredale, 
looking  toward  him  as  he  spoke.  “  I  doubt  it.  He 
has  an  evil  eye.” 

“  There’s  no  imagination  in  his  eye,”  returned  Mr. 
Willet,  glancing  over  his  shoulder  at  the  organ  in 
question,  “  certainly.” 

“  There  is  no  good  there,  be  assured,”  said  Mr. 
Haredale.  “Wait  in  that  little  room,  friend,  and 
close  the  door  between  us.” 

Hugh  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  with  a  disdain¬ 
ful  look,  which  showed,  either  that  he  had  overheard, 
or  that  he  guessed  the  purport  of  their  whispering, 
did  as  he  was  told.  When  he  was  shut  out,  Mr. 
Haredale  turned  to  John,  and  bade  him  go  on  with 
what  he  had  to  say,  but  not  to  speak  too  loud,  for 
there  were  quick  ears  yonder. 

Thus  cautioned,  Mr.  Willet,  in  an  oily  whisper,  re¬ 
cited  all  that  he  had  heard  and  said  that  night ;  lay¬ 
ing  particular  stress  upon  his  own  sagacity,  upon  his 
great  regard  for  the  family,  and  upon  his  solicitude 
for  their  peace  of  mind  and  happiness.  The  story 
moved  his  auditor  much  more  than  he  had  expect¬ 
ed.  Mr.  Haredale  often  changed  his  attitude,  rose 
and  paced  the  room,  returned  again,  desired  him  to 
repeat,  as  nearly  as  he  could,  the  very  words  that 
Solomon  had  used,  and  gave  so  many  other  signs  of 
being  disturbed  and  ill  at  ease,  that  even  Mr.  Willet 
was  surprised. 

“  You  did  quite  right,”  he  said,  at  the  end  of  a  long 
conversation,  “  to  bid  them  keep  this  story  secret. 
It  is  a  foolish  fancy  on  the  part  of  this  weak-brained 
man,  bred  in  his  fears  and  superstition.  But  Miss 
Haredale,  though  she  would  know  it  to  be  so,  would 
be  disturbed  by  it  if  it  reached  her  ears ;  it  is  too 
nearly  connected  with  a  subject  very  painful  to  us 
all,  to  be  heard  with  indilference.  You  were  most 
prudent,  and  have  laid  me  under  a  great  obligation. 
I  thank  you  very  much.” 

This  was  equal  to  John’s  most  sanguine  expecta¬ 
tions;  but  he  would  have  preferred  Mr.  Haredale’s 
looking  at  him  when  he  spoke,  as  if  he  really  did 
thank  him,  to  his  walking  up  and  down,  speaking  by 
tits  and  starts,  often  stopping  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  ground,  moving  hurriedly  on  again,  like  one  dis¬ 
tracted,  and  seeming  almost  unconscious  of  what  he 
said  or  did. 

This,  however,  was  his  manner ;  and  it  was  so  em¬ 
barrassing  to  John  that  he  sat  quite  passive  for  a 
long  time,  not  knowing  what  to  do.  At  length  he 
rose.  Mr.  Haredale  stared  at  him  for  a  moment  as 
though  he  had  quite  forgotten  his  being  present, 
then  shook  hands  with  him,  and  opened  the  door. 
Hugh,  who  was,  or  feigned  to  be,  fast  asleep  on  the 
antechamber  floor,  sprang  up  on  their  entrance,  and 
throwing  his  cloak  about  him,  grasped  his  stick  and 
lantern,  and  prepared  to  descend  the  stairs. 

“Stay,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “Will  this  man 
drink  ?” 

“Drink!  He’d  ‘drink  the  Thames  up,  if  it  was 
strong  enough,  sir,”  replied  John  Willet.  “  He’ll 
have  something  when  he  gets  home.  He’s  better 
without  it,  now,  sir.” 

“Nay.  Half  the  distance  is  done,”  said  Hugh. 
“  What  a  hard  master  you  are  !  I  shall  go  home  the 
better  for  one  glassful,  half-way.  Come  !” 

As  John  made  no  reply,  Mr.  Haredale  brought 


out  a  glass  of  liquor,  and  gave  it  to  Hugh,  who, 
as  he  took  it  in  his  hand,  threw  part  of  it  upon  the 
floor. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  splashing  your  drink  about 
a  gentleman’s  house,  sir  ?”  said  John. 

“  I’m  driuking  a  toast,”  Hugh  rejoined,  holding 
the  glass  above  his  head,  and  fixing  his  eyes  on  Mr. 
Haredale’s  face  ;  “  a  toast  to  this  house  and  its  mas¬ 
ter.”  With  that  he  muttered  something  to  himself, 
and  drank  the  rest,  and  setting  down  the  glass,  pre¬ 
ceded  them  without  another  word. 

John  was  a  good  deal  scandalized  by  this  observ¬ 
ance,  but  seeing  that  Mr.  Haredale  took  little  heed 
of  what  Hugh  said  or  did,  and  that  his  thoughts 
were  otherwise  employed,  he  offered  no  apology,  and 
went  in  silence  down  the  stairs,  across  the  walk,  and 
through  the  garden  gate.  They  stopped  upon  the 
outer  side  for  Hugh  to  hold  the  light  while  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale  locked  it  on  the  inner ;  and  then  John  saw  with 
wonder  (as  he  often  afterward  related),  that  he  was 
very  pale,  and  that  his  face  had  changed  so  much 
and  grown  so  haggard  since  their  entrance,  that  he 
almost  seemed  another  man. 

They  were  in  the  open  road  again,  and  John  Wil¬ 
let  was  walking  on  behind  his  escort,  as  he  had  come, 
thinking  very  steadily  of  what  he  had  just  now  seen, 
when  Hugh  drew  him  suddenly  aside,  and  almost 
at  the  same  instant  three  horsemen  swept  past — the 
nearest  brushed  his  shoulder  even  then — who,  check¬ 
ing  their  steeds  as  suddenly  as  they  could,  stood  still, 
and  waited  for  their  coming  up. 

- ♦ - 

CHAPTER  XXXV. 

HEN  John  Willet  saw  that  the  horsemen  wheel¬ 
ed  smartly  round,  and  drew  up  three  abreast, 
in  the  narrow  road,  waiting  for  him  and  his  man  to 
join  them,  it  occurred  to  him  with  unusual  precipita¬ 
tion  that  they  must  be  highwaymen;  and  had  Hugh 
been  armed  with  a  blunderbuss,  in  place  of  his  stout 
cudgel,  he  would  certainly  have  ordered  him  to  fire 
it  off  at  a  venture,  and  would,  while  the  word  of 
command  was  obeyed,  have  consulted  his  own  per¬ 
sonal  safety  in  immediate  flight.  Under  the  circum¬ 
stances  of  disadvantage,  however,  in  which  he  and 
his  guard  were  placed,  he  deemed  it  prudent  to  adopt 
a  different  style  of  generalship,  and  therefore  whis¬ 
pered  his  attendant  to  address  them  in  the  most 
peaceable  and  courteous  terms.  By  wray  of  acting  up 
to  the  spirit  and  letter  of  this  instruction,  Hugh  step¬ 
ped  forward,  and  flourishing  his  staff  before  the  very 
eyes  of  the  rider  nearest  to  him,  demanded  roughly 
what  he  and  his  fellows  meant  by  so  nearly  gallop¬ 
ing  over  them,  aud  why  they  scoured  the  king’s  high¬ 
way  at  that  late  hour  of  night. 

The  man  whom  he  addressed  was  beginning  an 
angry  reply  in  the  same  strain,  when  he  was  check¬ 
ed  by  the  horseman  in  the  centre,  who,  interposing 
with  an  air  of  authority,  inquired  in  a  somewhat  loud 
but  not  harsh  or  unpleasant  voice : 

“  Pray,  is  this  the  London  road  ?” 

“  If  you  follow  it  right,  it  is,”  replied  Hugh,  roughly. 

“Nay,  brother,”  said  the  same  person,  “you’re  but 
|  a  churlish  Englishman,  if  Englishman  you  be  — 


LORD  GEORGE  GORDON  AND  SUITE. 


115 


which  I  should  much  doubt  but  for  your  tongue. 
Your  companion,  I  am  sure,  will  answer  me  more 
civilly.  How  say  you,  frieud  V’ 

“  I  say  it  is  the  London  road,  sir,”  answered  John. 
“And  I  wish,”  he  added  in  a  subdued  voice,  as  he 
turned  to  Hugh,  “that  you  was  iu  any  other  road, 
you  vagabond.  Are  you  tir$d  of  your  life,  sir,  that 
you  go  a-trying  to  provoke  three  great  neck-or-noth- 
iug  chaps,  that  could  keep  on  running  over  us,  back- 
’ard  and  for’ard,  till  we  was  dead,  and  then  take 
our  bodies  up  behind  ’em,  and  drown  us  ten  miles 
off?” 

“  How  far  is  it  to  London  ?”  inquired  the  same 
speaker. 

“  Why,  from  here,  sir,”  answered  John,  persuasive¬ 
ly,  “  it’s  thirteen  very  easy  mile.” 

The  adjective  w7as  thrown  in,  as  an  inducement  to 
the  travelers  to  ride  away  with  all  speed;  but  in¬ 
stead  of  having  the  desired  effect,  it  elicited  from  the 
same  person  the  remark,  “  Thirteen  miles !  That’s  a 
long  distance !”  which  was  followed  by  a  short  pause 
of  indecision. 

“Pray,”  said  the  gentleman,  “are  there  any  inns 
hereabouts  ?” 

At  the  word  “inns,”  John  plucked  up  his  spirit 
in  a  surprising  manner;  his  fears  rolled  off  like 
smoke ;  all  the  landlord  stirred  within  him. 

“There  are  no  inns,”  rejoined  Mr.  Willet,  with  a 
strong  emphasis  on  the  plural  number ;  “  but  there’s 
a  Inn — one  Inn — the  Maypole  Inn.  That’s  a  Inn 
indeed.  You  won’t  see  the  like  of  that  Inn  often.” 

“  You  keep  it,  perhaps  ?”  said  the  horseman,  smil¬ 
ing. 

“I  do,  sir,”  replied  John,  greatly  wondering  how 
he  had  found  this  out. 

“And  how  far  is  the  Maypole  from  here  ?” 

“About  a  mile” — John  was  going  to  add  that  it 
was  the  easiest  mile  in  all  the  world,  when  the  third 
rider,  who  had  hitherto  kept  a  little  in  the  rear,  sud¬ 
denly  interposed : 

“And  have  you  one  excellent  bed,  landlord? 
Hem !  A  bed  that  you  can  recommend — a  bed  that 
you  are  sure  is  well  aired — a  bed  that  has  been  slept 
in  by  some  perfectly  respectable  and  unexceptiona¬ 
ble  person  ?” 

“  We  don’t  take  in  no  tag-rag-and-bob-tail  at  our 
house,  sir,”  answered  John.  “And  as  to  the  bed  it¬ 
self—” 

“  Say,  as  to  three  beds,”  interposed  the  gentleman 
who  had  spoken  before ;  “  for  we  shall  want  three 
if  we  stay,  though  my  friend  only  speaks  of  one.” 

“No,  no,  my  lord;  you  are  too  good,  you  are  too 
kind ;  but  your  life  is  of  far  too  much  importance  to 
the  nation  in  these  portentous  times,  to  be  placed 
upon  a  level  with  one  so  useless  and  so  poor  as  mine. 
A  great  cause,  my  lord,  a  mighty  cause,  depends  on 
you.  You  are  its  leader  and  its  champion,  its  ad¬ 
vanced  guard  and  its  van.  It  is  the  cause  of  our 
altars  and  our  homes,  our  country  and  our  faith. 
Let  me  sleep  on  a  chair — the  carpet  —  anywhere. 
No  one  will  repine  if  I  take  cold  or  fever.  Let 
John  Grueby  pass  the  night  beneath  the  open  sky — 
no  one  will  pine  for  him.  But  forty  thousand  men 
of  this  our  island  in  the  wave  (exclusive  of  women 
and  children)  rivet  their  eyes  and  thoughts  on  Lord 
George  Gordon  ;  and  every  day,  from  the  rising  up  of 


the  sun  to  the  going  down  of  the  same,  pray  for  his 
health  and  vigor.  My  lord,”  said  the  speaker,  ris¬ 
ing  in  his  stirrups,  “it  is  a  glorious  cause,  and  must 
not  be  forgotten.  My  lord,  it  is  a  mighty  cause,  and 
must  not  be  endangered.  My  lord,  it  is  a  holy  cause, 
and  must  not  be  deserted.” 

“It  is  a  holy  cause,”  exclaimed  his  lordship,  lift¬ 
ing  up  his  hat  with  great  solemnity.  “Amen.” 

“John  Grueby,”  said  the  long-winded  gentleman, 
in  a  tone  of  mild  reproof,  “his  lordship  said  Amen.” 

“  I  heard  my  lord,  sir,”  said  the  man,  sitting  like 
a  statue  on  his  horse. 

“  And  do  not  you  say  Amen,  likewise  ?” 

To  which  John  Grueby  made  no  reply  at  all,  but 
sat  looking  straight  before  him. 

“You  surprise  me,  Grueby,”  said  the  gentleman. 
“At  a  crisis  like  the  present,  when  Queen  Elizabeth, 
that  maiden  monarch,  weeps  wdthin  her  tomb,  and 
Bloody  Mary,  with  a  brow  of  gloom  and  shadow, 
stalks  triumphant — ” 

“  Oh,  sir,”  cried  the  man,  gruffly,  “  where’s  the  use 
of  talking  of  Bloody  Mary,  under  such  circumstances 
as  the  present,  wheu  my  lord’s  wet  through,  and 
tired  with  hard  riding  ?  Let’s  either  go  on  to  Lon¬ 
don,  sir,  or  put  up  at  once ;  or  that  unfort’nate 
Bloody  Mary  will  have  more  to  answer  for — and 
she’s  done  a  deal  more  harm  in  her  grave  than  she 
ever  did  in  her  lifetime,  I  believe.” 

By  this  time  Mr.  Willet,  who  had  never  heard  so 
many  words  spoken  together  at  one  time,  or  deliv¬ 
ered  with  such  volubility  and  emphasis  as  by  the 
long-winded  gentleman;  and  whose  brain,  being 
wholly  unable  to  sustain  or  compass  them,  had  quite 
given  itself  up  for  lost ;  recovered  so  far  as  to  ob¬ 
serve  that  there  was  ample  accommodation  at  the 
Maypole  for  all  the  party :  good  beds ;  neat  wines ; 
excellent  entertainment  for  man  and  beast;  private 
rooms  for  large  and  small  parties ;  dinners  dressed 
upon  the  shortest  notice;  choice  stabling,  and  a 
lock-up  coach-house ;  and,  in  short,  to  run  over  such 
recommendatory  scraps  of  language  as  were  painted 
up  on  various  portions  of  the  building,  and  which  in 
the  course  of  some  forty  years  he  had  learned  to  re¬ 
peat  with  tolerable  correctness.  He  was  consider¬ 
ing  whether  it  was  at  all  possible  to  insert  any  novel 
sentences  to  the  same  purpose,  when  the  gentleman 
w7ho  had  spoken  first,  turning  to  him  of  the  long 
wind,  exclaimed,  “  What  say  you,  Gashford  ?  Shall 
we  tarry  at  this  house  he  speaks  of,  or  press  for¬ 
ward  ?  You  shall  decide.” 

“I  would  submit,  my  lord,  then,”  returned  the 
person  he  appealed  to,  in  a  silky  tone,  “  that  your 
health  and  spirits — so  important,  under  Providence, 
to  our  great  cause,  our  pure  and  truthful  cause  ” — 
here  his  lordship  pulled  off  his  hat  again,  though 
it  was  raining  hard — “require  refreshment  and  re¬ 
pose.” 

“  Go  on  before,  landlord,  and  show  the  way,”  said 
Lord  George  Gordon ;  “  we  will'  follow  at  a  foot¬ 
pace.” 

“If  you’ll  give  me  leave,  my  lord,”  said  John 
Grueby,  in  a  low  voice,  “I’ll  change  my  proper 
place,  and  ride  before  you.  The  looks  of  the  land¬ 
lord’s  friend  are  not  overhonest,  aud  it  may  be  as 
well  to  be  cautious  with  him.” 

“John  Grueby  is  quite  right,”  interposed  Mi*. 


116 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


Gashford,  falling  back  hastily.  “  My  lord,  a  life  so 
precious  as  yours  must  not  he  put  in  peril.  Go  for¬ 
ward,  John,  by  all  means.  If  you  have  any  reason 
to  suspect  the  fellow,  blow  his  brains  out.” 

John  made  no  answer,  but  looking  straight  before 
him,  as  his  custom  seemed  to  be  when  the  secretary 
spoke,  bade  Hugh  push  on,  and  followed  close  be¬ 
hind  him.  Then  came  his  lordship,  with  Mr.  Willet 
at  his  bridle-rein ;  and,  last  of  all,  his  lordship’s  sec¬ 
retary — for  that,  it  seemed,  was  Gashford’s  office. 

Hugh  strode  briskly  on,  often  looking  back  at  the 
servant,  whose  horse  was  close  upon  his  heels,  and 
glancing  with  a  leer  at  his  holster  case  of  pistols, 
by  which  he  seemed  to  set  great  store.  He  was  a 
square-built,  strong-made,  bull-necked  fellow,  of  the 
true  English  breed  ;  and  as  Hugh  measured  him  with 
his  eye,  he  measured  Hugh,  regarding  him  meanwhile 
with  a  look  of  bluff  disdain.  He  was  much  older 
than  the  Maypole  man,  being  to  all  appearance  five- 
and-forty ;  but  was  one  of  those  self-possessed,  hard- 
headed,  imperturbable  fellows  who,  if  they  are  ever 
beaten  at  fisticuffs,  or  other  kind  of  warfare,  never 
know  it,  and  go  on  coolly  till  they  win. 

“  If  I  led  you  wrong  now,”  said  Hugh,  tauntingly, 
“  you’d — ha,  ha,  ha ! — you’d  shoot  me  through  the 
head,  I  suppose.” 

John  Grueby  took  no  more  notice  of  this  remark 
than  if  he  had  been  deaf  and  Hugh  dumb  ;  but  kept 
riding  on  quite  comfortably,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on 
the  horizon. 

“Did  you  ever  try  a  fall  with  a  man  when  you 
were  young,  master?”  said  Hugh.  “Can  you  make 
any  play  at  single-stick  ?” 

John  Grueby  looked  at  him  sideways  with  the  same 
contented  air,  but  deigned  not  a  word  in  answer. 

“ — Like  this?”  said  Hugh,  giving  his  cudgel  one 
of  those  skillful  flourishes,  in  which  the  rustic  of 
that  time  delighted.  “  Whoop !” 

“  — Or  that,”  returned  John  Grueby,  beating  down 
his  guard  with  his  whip,  and  striking  him  on  the 
head  with  its  butt-end.  “  Yes,  I  played  a  little  once. 
You  wear  your  hair  too  long ;  I  should  have  cracked 
your  crown  if  it  had  been  a  little  shorter.” 

It  was  a  pretty  smart,  loud -sounding  rap,  as  it 
was,  and  evidently  astonished  Hugh ;  who,  for  the 
moment,  seemed  disposed  to  drag  his  new  acquaint¬ 
ance  from  his  saddle.  But  his  face  betokened  nei¬ 
ther  malice,  triumph,  rage,  nor  any  lingering  idea 
that  he  had  given  him  offense;  his  eyes  gazing 
steadily  in  the  old  direction,  and  his  manner  being 
as  careless  and  composed  as  if  he  had  merely  brush¬ 
ed  away  a  fly;  Hugh  was  so  puzzled,  and  so  dis¬ 
posed  to  look  upon  him  as  a  customer  of  almost  su¬ 
pernatural  toughness,  that  he  merely  laughed,  and 
cried  “Well  done!”  then,  sheering  off  a  little,  led 
the  way  in  silence. 

Before  the  lapse  of  many  minutes  the  party  halted 
at  the  Maypole  door ;  Lord  George  and  his  secretary 
quickly  dismounting,  gave  their  horses  to  their  serv¬ 
ant,  who,  under  the  guidance  of  Hugh,  repaired  to 
the  stables.  Right  glad  to  escape  from  the  inclem¬ 
ency  of  the  night,  they  followed  Mr.  Willet  into  the 
common  room,  and  stood  warming  themselves  and 
drying  their  clothes  before  the  cheerful  fire,  while 
he  busied  himself  with  such  orders  and  preparations 
as  his  guest’s  high  quality  required. 


As  he  bustled  in  and  out  of  the  room  intent  on 
these  arrangements,  he  had  an  opportunity  of  ob¬ 
serving  the  two  travelers,  of  whom,  as  yet,  he  knew 
nothing  but  the  voice.  The  lord,  the  great  person¬ 
age  who  did  the  Maypole  so  much  honor,  was  about 
the  middle  height,  of  a  slender  make,  and  sallow 
complexion,  with  an  aquiline  nose,  and  long  hair  of 
reddish  brown,  combed  perfectly  straight  and  smooth 
about  his  ears,  and  slightly  powdered,  but  without 
the  faintest  vestige  of  a  curl.  He  was  attired,  un¬ 
der  his  great-coat,  in  a  full  suit  of  black,  quite  free 
from  any  ornament,  and  of  the  most  precise  and  sober 
cut.  The  gravity  of  his  dress,  together  with  a  certain 
lankness  of  cheek  and  stiffness  of  deportment,  added 
nearly  ten  years  to  his  age,  but  his  figure  was  that 
of  one  not  yet  past  thirty.  As  he  stood  musing  in 
the  red  glow  of  the  fire,  it  was  striking  to  observe 
his  very  bright  large  eye,  which  betrayed  a  restless¬ 
ness  of  thought  and  purpose,  singularly  at  variance 
with  the  studied  composure  and  sobriety  of  his  mien, 
and  with  his  quaint  and  sad  apparel.  It  had  noth¬ 
ing  harsh  or  cruel  in  its  expression ;  neither  had  his 
face,  which  was  thin  and  mild,  and  wore  an  air  of 
melancholy ;  but  it  was  suggestive  of  an  air  of  in¬ 
definable  uneasiness,  which  infected  those  who  look¬ 
ed  upon  him,  and  filled  them  with  a  kind  of  pity  for 
the  man :  though  why  it  did  so,  they  would  have 
had  some  trouble  to  explain. 

Gashford,  the  secretary,  was  taller,  angularly  made, 
high -shouldered,  bony,  and  ungraceful.  His  dress, 
iu  imitation  of  his  superior,  was  demure  and  staid 
in  the  extreme ;  his  manner,  formal  and  constrained. 
This  gentleman  had  an  overhanging  brow,  great 
hands  and  feet  and  ears,  and  a  pair  of  eyes  that 
seemed  to  have  made  an  unnatural  retreat  into  his 
head,  and  to  have  dug  themselves  a  cave  to  hide  in. 
His  manner  was  smooth  and  humble,  but  very  sly 
and  slinking.  He  wore  the  aspect  of  a  man  who 
was  always  lying  in  wait  for  something  that  wouldn't 
come  to  pass ;  but  he  looked  patient — very  patient 
— and  fawned  like  a  spaniel  dog.  Even  now,  while 
he  warmed  and  rubbed  his  hands  before  the  blaze, 
he  had  the  air  of  one  who  only  presumed  to  enjoy  it 
in  his  degree  as  a  commoner ;  and  though  he  knew 
his  lord  was  not  regarding  him,  he  looked  into  his 
face  from  time  to  time,  and  with  a  meek  and  defer¬ 
ential  manner,  smiled  as  if  for  practice. 

Such  were  the  guests  whom  old  John  Willet,  with 
a  fixed  and  leaden  eye,  surveyed  a  hundred  times, 
and  to  whom  he  now  advanced  with  a  state  candle¬ 
stick  in  each  hand,  beseeching  them  to  follow  him 
into  a  worthier  chamber.  “For  my  lord,”  said  John 
— it  is  odd  enough,  but  certain  people  seem  to  have 
as  great  a  jdeasure  in  pronouncing  titles  as  their 
owners  have  in  wearing  them — “  this  room,  my  lord, 
isn’t  at  all  the  sort  of  place  for  your  lordship,  and  I 
have  to  beg  your  lordship’s  pardon  for  keeping  you 
here,  my  lord,  one  minute.” 

With  this  address,  John  ushered  them  up  stairs 
into  the  state  apartment,  which,  like  many  other 
things  of  state,  was  cold  and  comfortless.  Their 
own  footsteps,  reverberating  through  the  spacious 
room,  struck  upon  their  hearing  with  a  hollow 
sound;  and  its  damp  and  chilly  atmosphere  was 
rendered  doubly  cheerless  by  contrast  with  the 
homely  warmth  they  had  deserted. 


THE  TRUE  RELIGION. 


117 


It  was  of  no  use,  however,  to  propose  a  return  to 
the  place  they  had  quitted,  for  the  preparations  went 
on  so  briskly  that  there  was  no  time  to  stop  them. 
John,  with  the  tall  candlesticks  in  his  hands,  bowed 
them  up  to  the  fire-place;  Hugh,  striding  iu  with  a 
lighted  brand  and  pile  of  fire -wood,  cast  it  down 
upon  the  hearth,  and  set  it  in  a  blaze ;  John  Grueby 
(who  had  a  great  blue  cockade  in  his  hat,  which  he 
appeared  to  despise  mightily)  brought  in  the  port¬ 
manteau  he  had  carried  on  his  horse,  aud  placed  it 
on  the  floor ;  and  presently  all  three  were  busily  en¬ 
gaged  in  drawing  out  the  screen,  laying  the  cloth, 
inspecting  the  beds,  lighting  fires  in  the  bedrooms, 
expediting  the  supper,  and  making  every  thing  as 
cozy  and  as  snug  as  might  be,  on  so  short  a  notice. 
In  less  than  an  hour’s  time,  supper  had  been  served, 
and  ate,  and  cleared  away ;  and  Lord  George  and  his 
secretary,  with  slippered  feet,  and  legs  stretched  out 
before  the  fire,  sat  over  some  hot  mulled  wiue  to¬ 
gether. 

“  So  ends,  my  lord,”  said  Gasliford,  filling  his  glass 
with  great  complacency,  “  the  blessed  work  of  a  most 
blessed  day.” 

“And  of  a  blessed  yesterday,”  said  his  lordship, 
raising  his  head. 

“Ah!” — and  here  the  secretary  clasped  his  hands 
—  “a  blessed  yesterday  indeed !  The  Protestants 
of  Suffolk  are  godly  men  and  true.  Though  others 
of  our  countrymen  have  lost  their  way  in  darkness, 
even  as  we,  my  lord,  did  lose  our  road  to-night,  theirs 
is  the  light  and  glory.” 

“  Did  I  move  them,  Gashford  ?”  said  Lord  George. 

“  Move  them,  my  lord !  Move  them !  They  cried 
to  be  led  on  against  the  Papists,  they  vowed  a  dread¬ 
ful  vengeance  on  their  heads,  they  roared  like  men 
possessed — ” 

“  But  not  by  devils,”  said  his  lord. 

“  By  devils !  my  lord !  By  angels.” 

“  Yes — oh  surely — by  angels,  no  doubt,”  said  Lord 
George,  thrusting  his  hands  iuto  his  pockets,  taking 
them  out  again  to  bite  his  nails,  and  looking  un¬ 
comfortably  at  the  fire.  “  Of  course  by  angels — eh, 
Gashford  ?” 

“  You  do  not  doubt  it,  my  lord  ?”  said  the  secre¬ 
tary. 

“  No — no,”  returned  his  lord.  “  No.  Why  should 
I  ?  I  suppose  it  would  be  decidedly  irreligious  to 
doubt  it — wouldn’t  it,  Gashford?  Though  there 
certainly  were,”  he  added,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  “  some  plaguy  ill-looking  characters  among 
them.” 

“  When  you  warmed,”  said  the  secretary,  looking 
sharply  at  the  other’s  downcast  eyes,  which  bright¬ 
ened  slowly  as  he  spoke ;  “  when  you  warmed  into 
that  noble  outbreak  ;  when  you  told  them  that  you 
were  never  of  the  lukewarm  or  the  timid  tribe,  and 
bade  them  take  heed  that  they  were  prepared  to  fol¬ 
low  one  who  would  lead  them  on,  though  to  the  very 
death ;  when  you  spoke  of  a  hundred  and  twenty 
thousand  men  across  the  Scottish  border  who  would 
take  their  own  redress  at  any  time,  if  it  were  not 
conceded ;  when  you  cried, 1  Perish  the  Pope  and  all 
his  base  adherents ;  the  penal  laws  against  them  shall  , 
never  be  repealed  while  Englishmen  have  hearts  and  j 
hands’  —  and  waved  your  own  and  touched  your 
sword;  and  when  they  cried,  ‘No  Popery!’  and  you 


[  cried,  1  No ;  not  even  if  we  wade  in  blood,’  and  they 
threw  up  their  hats  and  cried,  1  Hurra !  not  even  if 
we  wade  in  blood ;  No  Popery !  Lord  George !  Down 
with  the  Papists — Vengeance  on  their  heads :’  when 
this  was  said  and  done,  and  a  word  from  you,  my 
lord,  could  raise  or  still  the  tumult — ah !  then  I  felt 
what  greatness  was  indeed,  and  thought,  When  was 
there  ever  power  like  this  of  Lord  George  Gordon’s !” 

“It’s  a  great  power.  You’re  right.  It  is  a  great 
power !”  he  cried  with  sparkling  eyes.  “  But — dear  , 
Gashford — did  I  really  say  all  that  ?” 

“And  how  much  more!”  cried  the  secretary, look¬ 
ing  upward.  “Ah!  how  much  more!” 

“And  I  told  them  what  you  say,  about  the  one 
hundred  and  forty  thousand  men  in  Scotland,  did 
I  ?”  he  asked,  with  evident  delight.  “  That  was 
bold.” 

“  Our  cause  is  boldness.  Truth  is  always  bold.” 

“Certainly.  So  is  religion.  She’s  bold,  Gash¬ 
ford  ?” 

“  The  true  religion  is,  my  lord.” 

“And  that’s  ours,”  he  rejoined,  moving  uneasily 
in  his  seat,  and  biting  his  nails  as  though  he  would 
pare  .them  to  the  quick.  “  There  cau  be  no  doubt 
of  ours  being  the  true  one.  You  feel  as  certain  of 
that  as  I  do,  Gashford,  don’t  you  ?” 

“  Does  my  lord  ask  we,”  whined  Gashford,  draw¬ 
ing  his  chair  nearer  with  an  iujured  air,  and  laying 
his  broad  flat  hand  upon  the  table ;  “  we,”  he  re¬ 
peated,  bending  the  dark  hollows  of  his  eyes  upon 
him  with  an  unwholesome  smile,  “  who,  stricken  by 
the  magic  of  his  eloquence  in  Scotland  but  a  year 
ago,  abjured  the  errors  of  the  Romish  Church,  and 
clung  to  him  as  one  whose  timely  hand  had  plucked 
me  from  a  pit  ?” 

“True.  No — No.  I  —  I  didn’t  mean  it,”  replied 
the  other,  shaking  him  by  the  hand,  rising  from  his 
seat,  and  pacing  restlessly  about  the  room.  “  It’s  a 
proud  thing  to  lead  the  people,  Gashford,”  he  added 
as  he  made  a  sudden  halt. 

“  By  force  of  reason  too,”  returned  the  pliant  sec¬ 
retary. 

“Ay,  to  be  sure.  They  may  cough  and  jeer,  and 
groan  in  Parliament,  and  call  me  fool  and  madman, 
but  which  of  them  can  raise  this  human  sea  and 
make  it  swell  and  roar  at  pleasure  ?  Not  one.” 

“  Not  one,”  repeated  Gashford. 

“  Which  of  them  can  say  for  his  honesty,  what  I 
can  say  for  mine ;  which  of  them  has  refused  a  min¬ 
ister’s  bribe  of  one  thousand  pounds  a  year,  to  re¬ 
sign  his  seat  in  favor  of  another  ?  Not  one.” 

“  Not  one,”  repeated  Gashford  again — taking  the 
lion’s  share  of  the  mulled  wine  between  whiles. 

“And  as  we  are  honest,  true,  and  in  a  sacred  cause, 
Gashford,”  said  Lord  George  with  a  heightened  col¬ 
or  and  in  a  louder  voice,  as  he  laid  his  fevered  hand 
upon  his  shoulder,  “  and  are  the  only  men  who  re¬ 
gard  the  mass  of  people  out-of-doors,  or  are  regard¬ 
ed  by  them,  we  will  uphold  them  to  the  last ;  and 
will  raise  a  cry  against  these  uu- English  Papists 
which  shall  re-echo  through  the  country,  and  roll 
with  a  noise  like  thunder.  I  will  be  worthy  of  the 
motto  on  my  coat  of  arms,  ‘  Called  aud  chosen  and 
!  faithful.’” 

“  Called,”  said  the  secretary,  “  by  Heaven.” 

“  I  am.” 


118 


BABNABY  BUDGE . 


“  Chosen  by  the  people.” 

“  Yes.” 

11  Faithful  to  both.” 

“  To  the  block !” 

It  would  be  difficult  to  convey  an  adequate  idea 
of  the  excited  manner  in  which  he  gave  these  an¬ 
swers  to  the  secretary’s  promptings ;  of  the  rapidity 
of  his  utterance,  or  the  violence  of  his  tone  and  ges¬ 
ture  in  which,  struggling  through  his  Puritan’s  de¬ 
meanor,  was  something  wild  and  ungovernable  which 
broke  through  all  restraint.  For  some  minutes  he 
walked  rapidly  up  and  down  the  room,  then  stop¬ 
ping  suddenly,  exclaimed, 

“  Gashford—  You  moved  them  yesterday  too.  Oh 
yes !  You  did.” 

“  I  shone  wdth  a  reflected  light,  my  lord,”  replied 
the  humble  secretary,  laying  his  hand  upon  his  heart. 
“  I  did  my  best.” 

“  You  did  well,”  said  his  master,  “  and  are  a  great 
and  worthy  instrument.  If  you  will  ring  for  John 
Grueby  to  carry  the  portmanteau  into  my  room,  and 
will  wait  here  while  I  undress,  we  will  dispose  of 
business  as  usual,  if  you’re  not  too  tired.” 

“Too  tired,  my  lord! — But  this  is  his  considera¬ 
tion  !  Christian  from  head  to  foot.”  With  which 
soliloquy,  the  secretary  tilted  the  jug,  and  looked 
very  hard  into  the  mulled  wine,  to  see  how  much 
remained. 

John  Willet  and  John  Grueby  appeared  together. 
The  one  bearing  the  great  candlesticks,  and  the  oth¬ 
er  the  portmanteau,  showed  the  deluded  lord  into 
his  chamber ;  and  left  the  seeretary  alone,  to  yawn 
and  shake  himself,  and  finally  to  fall  asleep  before 
the  fire. 

“  Now  Mr.  Gashford,  sir,”  said  John  Grueby  in  his 
ear,  after  what  appeared  to  him  a  moment  of  uncon¬ 
sciousness;  “my  lord’s  abed.” 

“Oh.  Very  good,  John,”  was  his  mild  reply. 
“Thank  you,  John.  Nobody  need  sit  up.  I  know 
my  room.” 

“I  hope  you’re  not  agoing  to  trouble  your  head 
to-night,  or  my  lord’s  head  neither,  with  auy  thing 
more  about  Bloody  Mary,”  said  John.  “  I  wish  the 
blessed  old  creetur  had  never  been  born.” 

“  I  said  you  might  go  to  bed,  John,”  returned  the 
secretary.  “  You  didn’t  bear  me,  I  think.” 

“  Between  Bloody  Marys,  and  blue  cockades,  and 
glorious  Queen  Besses,  and  no  Poperys,  and  Protest¬ 
ant  associations,  and  making  of  speeches,”  pursued 
John  Grueby,  looking,  as  usual,  a  long  way  off,  and 
taking  no  notice  of  this  hint,  “  my  lord’s  half  off  his 
head.  When  we  go  out-o’-doors,  such  a  set  of  raga¬ 
muffins  comes  a-shoutiug  after  us,  1 Gordon  forever!’ 
that  I’m  ashamed  of  myself  and  don’t  know  where 
to  look.  When  we’re  indoors  they  come  a-roaring 
and  screaming  about  the  house  like  so  many  devils ; 
and  my  lord,  instead  of  ordering  them  to  be  drove 
away,  goes  out  into  the  balcony  and  demeans  him¬ 
self  by  making  speeches  to  ’em,  and  calls  ’em  1  Men 
of  England,’  and  1  Fellow-countrymen,’  as  if  he  was 
fond  of  ’em  and  thanked  ’em  for  coming.  I  can’t 
make  it  out,  but  they’re  all  mixed  up  somehow  or 
another  with  that  unfort’nate  Bloody  Mary,  and  call 
her  name  out  till  they’re  hoarse.  They’re  all  Prot¬ 
estants  too — every  man  and  boy  among  ’em:  and 
Protestants  are  very  fond  of  spoons  I  find,  and  sil¬ 


ver-plate  in  general,  whenever  area  gates  is  left  open 
accidentally.  I  wish  that  was  the  worst  of  it,  and 
that  no  more  harm  might  be  to  come;  but  if  you 
don’t  stop  these  ugly  customers  in  time,  Mr.  Gash¬ 
ford  (and  I  know  you;  you’re  the  man  that  blows 
the  fire),  you’ll  find  ’em  grow  a  little  bit  too  strong 
for  you.  One  of  these  evenings,  when  the  weath¬ 
er  gets  warmer  and  Protestants  are  thirsty,  they’ll 
be  pulling  London  down — and  I  never  heard  that 
Bloody  Mary  went  as  far  as  that.” 

Gashford  had  vanished  long  ago,  and  these  re¬ 
marks  had  been  bestowed  on  empty  air.  Not  at  all 
discomposed  by  the  discovery,  John  Grueby  fixed 
his  hat  on,  wrong  side  foremost,  that  he  might  be  un¬ 
conscious  of  the  shadow  of  the  obnoxious  cockade, 
and  withdrew  to  bed;  shaking  his  head  in  a  very 
gloomy  and  pathetic  manner  until  he  reached  his 
chamber. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

ASHFORD,  with  a  smiling  face,  but  still  with 
looks  of  profound  deference  and  humility,  be¬ 
took  himself  toward  his  master’s  room,  smoothing 
his  hair  down  as  he  went,  and  humming  a  psalm 
tune.  As  he  approached  Lord  George’s  door,  he 
cleared  his  throat  and  hummed  more  vigorously. 

There  was  a  remarkable  contrast  between  this 
man’s  occupation  at  the  moment,  and  the  expression 
of  his  countenance,  which  was  singularly  repulsive 
and  malicious.  His  beetling  brow  almost  obscured 
his  eyes;  his  lip  was  curled  contemptuously;  his 
very  shoulders  seemed  to  sneer  in  stealthy  whisper¬ 
ings  with  his  great  flapped  ears. 

“Hush!”  he  muttered  softly,  as  he  peeped  in  at 
the  chamber  door.  “  He  seems  to  be  asleep.  Pray 
Heaven  he  is !  Too  much  watching,  too  much  care, 
too  much  thought  —  ah!  Lord  preserve  him  for  a 
martyr !  He  is  a  saint,  if  ever  saint  drew  breath  on 
this  bad  earth.” 

Placing  his  light  upon  a  table,  he  walked  on  tip¬ 
toe  to  the  fire,  and  sitting  in  a  chair  before  it  with 
his  back  toward  the  bed,  went  on  communing  with 
himself  like  one  who  thought  aloud : 

“  The  savior  of  his  county  and  his  country’s  re¬ 
ligion,  the  friend  of  bis  poor  countrymen,  the  enemy 
of  the  proud  and  harsh ;  beloved  of  tbe  rejected  and 
oppressed,  adored  by  forty  thousand  bold  and  loyal 
English  hearts — what  happy  slumbers  his  should 
be!”  And  here  he  sighed,  and  warmed  his  hands, 
and  shook  his  head  as  men  do  when  their  hearts  are 
full,  and  heaved  another  sigh,  and  warmed  his  hands 
again. 

“  Why,  Gashford  ?”  said  Lord  George,  who  was  ly¬ 
ing  broad  awake  upon  his  side,  and  had  been  staring 
at  him  from  his  entrance. 

“  My — my  lord,”  said  Gashford,  starting  and  look¬ 
ing  round  as  though  in  great  surprise.  “  I  have  dis¬ 
turbed  you !” 

“  I  have  not  been  sleeping.” 

“Not  sleeping!”  he  repeated,  with  assumed  confu¬ 
sion.  “  What  can  I  say  for  having  in  your  presence 
given  utterance  to  thoughts — but  they  were  sincere 
— they  were  sincere !”  exclaimed  the  secretary,  draw- 


MAKE  A  NOTE  OF  TAT  PERTH. 


119 


ing  his  sleeve  in  a  hasty  way  across  his  eyes ;  “  and 
why  should  I  regret  your  having  heard  them  ?” 

“  Gash  ford,”  said  the  poor  lord,  stretching  out  his 
hand  with  manifest  emotion.  “Do  not  regret  it. 
You  love  me  well,  I  know  —  too  well.  I  don’t  de¬ 
serve  such  homage.” 

Gashford  made  no  reply,  Imt  grasped  the  hand 
and  pressed  it  to  his  lips.  Then  rising,  and  taking 
from  the  trunk  a  little  desk,  he  placed  it  on  the  ta¬ 
ble  near  the  fire,  unlocked  it  with  a  key  he  carried 
in  his  pocket,  sat  down  before  it,  took  out  a  pen,  and, 
before  dipping  it  in  the  inkstand,  sucked  it — to  com¬ 
pose  the  fashion  of  his  mouth  perhaps,  on  which  a 
smile  was  hovering  yet. 

“How  do  our  numbers  stand  since  last  eurolling- 
night  ?”  inquired  Lord  George.  “  Are  we  really  forty 
thousand  strong,  or  do  we  still  speak  in  round  num¬ 
bers  when  we  take  the  Association  at  that  amount  ?” 

“  Our  total  now  exceeds  that  number  by  a  score 
and  three,”  Gashford  replied,  casting  his  eyes  upon 
his  papers. 

“  The  funds  ?” 

“Not  very  improving ;  but  there  is  some  manna  in 
the  wilderness,  my  lord.  Hem !  On  Friday  night 
the  widows’  mites  dropped  in.  1  Forty  scavengers, 
three- and -fourpence.  An  aged  pew -owner  of  St. 
Martin’s  parish,  sixpence.  A  bell-ringer  of  the  Es¬ 
tablished  Church,  sixpence.  A  Protestant  infant, 
newly  born,  one-halfpenny.  The  United  Link  Boys, 
three  shillings — one  bad.  The  anti-popish  prisoners 
in  Newgate,  five -and -fourpence.  A  friend  in  Bed¬ 
lam,  half  a  crown.  Dennis  the  hangman,  one  shil¬ 
ling.’  ” 

“  That  Dennis,”  said  his  lordship,  “  is  an  earnest 
man.  I  marked  him  in  the  crowd  in  Welbeck  Street, 
last  Friday.” 

“A  good  man,”  rejoined  the  secretary,  “  a  staunch, 
sincere,  and  truly  zealous  man.” 

“He  should  be  encouraged,”  said  Lord  George. 
“  Make  a  note  of  Dennis.  I’ll  talk  with  him.” 

Gashford  obeyed,  and  went  on  readiug  from  his 
list : 

“ 1  The  Friends  of  Reason,  half  a  guinea.  The 
Friends  of  Liberty,  half  a  guinea.  The  Friends  of 
Peace,  half  a  guinea.  The  Friends  of  Charity,  half 
a  guinea.  The  .Friends  of  Mercy,  half  a  guinea. 
The  Associated  Rememberers  of  Bloody  Mary,  half  a 
guinea.  The  United  Bull-dogs,  half  a  guinea.’  ” 

“  The  United  Bull-dogs,”  said  Lord  George,  biting 
his  nails  most  horribly,  “  are  a  new  society,  are  they 
not  ?” 

“  Formerly  the  ’Prentice  Knights,  my  lord.  The 
indentures  of  the  old  members  expiriug  by  degrees, 
they  changed  their  name,  it  seems,  though  they  still 
have  ’prentices  among  them,  as  well  as  workmen.” 

“  What  is  their  president’s  name  ?”  inquired  Lord 
George. 

“  President,”  said  Gashford,  reading,  “  Mr.  Simon 
Tappertit.” 

“  I  remember  him.  The  little  man,  who  some¬ 
times  brings  an  elderly  sister  to  our  meetings,  and 
sometimes  another  female  too,  who  is  conscientious, 
I  have  no  doubt,  but  not  well-favored  ?” 

“  The  very  same,  my  lord.” 

“Tappertit  is  an  earnest  man,”  said  Lord  George, 
thoughtfully.  “  Eh,  Gashford  ?” 


“  One  of  the  foremost  among  them  all,  my  lord. 
He  snuffs  the  battle  from  afar,  like  the  war-horse. 
He  throws  his  hat  up  in  the  street  as  if  he  Avere  in¬ 
spired,  and  makes  most  stirring  speeches  from  the 
shoulders  of  his  friends.” 

“Make  a  note  of  Tappertit,”  said  Lord  George 
Gordon.  “  We  may  advance  him  to  a  place  of  trust.” 

“That,”  rejoined  the  secretary,  doing  as  he  was 
told,  “is  all — except  Mrs.  Varden’s  box  (fourteenth 
time  of  opening),  seven  shillings  and  sixpence  in  sil¬ 
ver  and  copper,  and  half  a  guinea  in  gold ;  and  Miggs 
(being  the  saving  of  a  quarter’s  wages),  one-and- 
threepence.” 

“  Miggs,”  said  Lord  George.  “  Is  that  a  man  ?” 

“  The  name  is  entered  on  the  list  as  a  woman,”  re¬ 
plied  the  secretary.  “  I  think  she  is  the  tall  spare 
female  of  Avhom  you  spoke  just  now,  my  lord,  as  not 
being  Avell- favored,  who  sometimes  comes  to  hear 
the  speeches — along  with  Tappertit  and  Mrs.  Yar- 
den.” 

“  Mrs.  Varden  is  the  elderly  lady,  then,  is  she  ?” 

The  secretary  nodded,  and  rubbed  the  bridge  of 
his  nose  with  the  feather  of  his  pen. 

“  She  is  a  zealous  sister,”  said  Lord  George.  “  Her 
collection  goes  on  prosperously,  and  is  pursued  with 
fervor.  Has  her  husband  joined  ?” 

“A  malignant,”  returned  the  secretary,  folding  up 
his  papers.  “  Unworthy  such  a  wife.  He  remains 
in  outer  darkness  and  steadily  refuses.” 

“  The  consequences  be  upon  his  own  head ! — Gash¬ 
ford!” 

“  My  lord !” 

“  You  don’t  think,”  he  turned  restlessly  in  his  bed 
as  he  spoke,  “  these  people  will  desert  me,  when  the 
hour  arrives?  I  have  spoken  boldly  for  them,  ven¬ 
tured  much,  suppressed  nothing.  They’ll  not  fall  off, 
will  they  ?” 

“  No  fear  of  that,  my  lord,”  said  Gashford,  with  a 
meaning  look,  which  was  rather  the  involuntary  ex¬ 
pression  of  his  own  thoughts  than  intended  as  any 
confirmation  of  his  words,  for  the  other’s  face  was 
turned  away.  “  Be  sure  there  is  no  fear  of  that.” 

“Nor,”  he  said  with  a  more  restless  motion  than 
before,  “  of  their — but  they  can  sustain  no  harm  from 
leaguing  for  this  purpose.  Right  is  on  our  side, 
though  Might  may  be  against  us.  You  feel  as  sure 
of  that  as  I — honestly,  you  do  ?” 

The  secretary  was  beginning  with  “You  do  not 
doubt,”  when  the  other  interrupted  him,  and  impa¬ 
tiently  rejoined : 

“  Doubt.  No.  Who  says  I  doubt  ?  If  I  doubted 
should  I  cast  away  relatives,  friends,  every  thing,  for 
this  unhappy  country’s  sake ;  this  unhappy  country,” 
he  cried,  springing  up  in  bed,  after  repeating  the 
phrase  “  unhappy  country’s  sake  ”  to  himself  at  least 
a  dozen  times,  “forsaken  of  God  and  man,  delivered 
over  to  a  dangerous  coufederacy  of  Popish  powers ; 
the  prey  of  corruption,  idolatry,  and  despotism ! 
Who  says  I  doubt  ?  Am  I  called,  and  chosen,  and 
faithful  ?  Tell  me.  Am  I,  or  am  I  not  ?” 

“  To  God,  the  country,  and  yourself,”  cried  Gash¬ 
ford. 

“  I  am.  I  will  be.  I  say  again,  I  will  be  :  to  the 
block.  Who  says  as  much !  Do  you  ?  Does  any 
man  ali\re?” 

The  secretary  drooped  his  head  with  an  expression 


120 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


of  perfect  acquiescence  in  any  thing  that  had  been 
said  or  might  he ;  and  Lord  George  gradually  sink¬ 
ing  down  upon  his  pillow,  fell  asleep. 

Although  there  was  something  very  ludicrous  in 
his  vehement  manner,  taken  in  conjunction  with  his 
meagre  aspect  and  ungraceful  presence,  it  would 
scarcely  have  provoked  a  smile  in  any  man  of  kindly 
feeling ;  or  even  if  it  had,  he  wrould  have  felt  sorry 
and  almost  angry  with  himself  next  moment,  for 
yielding  to  the  impulse.  This  lord  was  sincere  in 
his  violence  and  in  his  wavering.  A  nature  prone 
to  false  enthusiasm,  and  the  vanity  of  being  a  lead¬ 
er,  were  the  worst  qualities  apparent  in  his  compo¬ 
sition.  All  the  rest  was  weakness — sheer  weakness ; 
and  it  is  the  unhappy  lot  of  thoroughly  weak  men, 
that  their  very  sympathies,  affections,  confidences — 
all  the  qualities  which  in  better  constituted  minds 
are  virtues — dwindle  into  foibles,  or  turn  into  down¬ 
right  vices. 

Gashford,  with  many  a  sly  look  toward  the  bed, 
sat  chuckling  at  his  master’s  folly,  until  his  deep  and 
heavy  breathing  warned  him  that  he  might  retire. 
Locking  his  desk,  and  replacing  it  -within  the  trunk 
(but  not  before  he  had  taken  from  a  secret  lining  two 
printed  handbills),  he  cautiously  withdrew  ;  looking 
hack,  as  he  went,  at  the  pale  face  of  the  slumbering 
man,  above  whose  head  the  dusty  plumes  that  crown¬ 
ed  the  Maypole  couch  waved  drearily  and  sadly,  as 
though  it  were  a  bier. 

Stopping  on  the  staircase  to  listen  that  all  was 
quiet,  and  to  take  off  his  shoes  lest  his  footsteps 
should  alarm  any  light  sleeper  who  might  be  near  at 
hand,  he  descended  to  the  ground-floor,  and  thrust 
one  of  his  bills  beneath  the  great  door  of  the  house. 
That  done,  he  crept  softly  hack  to  his  own  cham¬ 
ber,  and  from  the  window  let  another  fall — carefully 
wrapped  round  a  stone  to  save  it  from  the  wind — 
into  the  yard  below. 

They  were  addressed  on  the  hack  “  To  every  Prot¬ 
estant  into  whose  hands  this  shall  come,”  and  bore 
within  what  follows : 

“  Men  and  Brethren.  Whoever  shall  find  this  let¬ 
ter,  will  take  it  as  a  warning  to  join,  w  ithout  delay, 
the  friends  of  Lord  George  Gordon.  There  are  great 
events  at  hand  ;  and  the  times  are  dangerous  and 
troubled.  Read  this  carefully,  keep  it  clean,  and 
drop  it  somevThere  else.  For  King  and  Country. 
Union.” 

“  More  seed,  more  seed,”  said  Gashford  as  he  closed 
the  window.  “  When  will  the  harvest  come !” 


CHAPTER  XXXVII. 

TO  surround  any  thing,  however  monstrous  or  ri¬ 
diculous,  with  an  air  of  mystery,  is  to  invest  it 
with  a  secret  charm,  and  power  of  attraction  which 
to  the  crowd  is  irresistible.  False  priests,  false 
prophets,  false  doctors,  false  patriots,  false  prodigies 
of  every  kind,  veiling  their  proceedings  in  mystery, 
have  always  addressed  themselves  at  an  immense 
advantage  to  the  popular  credulity,  and  have  been, 
perhaps,  more  indebted  to  that  resource  in  gaining 
and  keeping  for  a  time  the  upper  hand  of  Truth  and 
Common  Sense,  than  to  any  half-dozen  items  in  the 


whole  catalogue  of  imposture.  Curiosity  is,  and  has 
been  from  the  creation  of  the  world,  a  master-passion. 
To  awaken  it,  to  gratify  it  by  slight  degrees,  and  yet 
leave  something  always  in  suspense,  is  to  establish 
the  surest  hold  that  can  be  had,  in  wrong,  on  the  un¬ 
thinking  portion  of  mankind. 

If  a  man  had  stood  on  London  Bridge,  calling  till 
he  was  hoarse,  upon  the  passers-by,  to  join  with  Lord 
George  Gordon,  although  for  an  object  which  no  man 
understood,  and  which  in  that  very  incident  had  a 
charm  of  its  own — the  probability  is,  that  he  might 
have  influenced  a  score  of  people  in  a  month.  If  all 
zealous  Protestants  had  been  publicly  urged  to  join 
an  association  for  the  avowed  purpose  of  singing  a 
hymn  or  two  occasionally,  and  hearing  some  indiffer¬ 
ent  speeches  made,  and  ultimately  of  petitioning  Par¬ 
liament  not  to  pass  an  act  for  abolishing  the  penal 
laws  against  Roman  Catholic  priests,  the  penalty  of 
perpetual  imprisonment  denounced  against  those  who 
educated  children  in  that  persuasion,  and  the  dis¬ 
qualification  of  all  members  of  the  Romish  Church  to 
inherit  real  property  in  the  United  Kingdom  by  right 
of  purchase  or  descent — matters  so  far  removed  from 
the  business  and  bosoms  of  the  mass,  might  perhaps 
have  called  together  a  hundred  people.  But  when 
vague  rumors  got  abroad,  that  in  this  Protestant  as¬ 
sociation  a  secret  power  was  mustering  against  the 
Government  for  undefined  and  mighty  purposes ; 
when  the  air  was  filled  with  whispers  of  a  confeder¬ 
acy  among  the  Popish  powers  to  degrade  and  enslave 
England,  establish  an  inquisition  in  London,  and  turn 
the  pens  of  Smithfield  market  into  stakes  and  cal¬ 
drons;  when  terrors  and  alarms  which  no  man  un¬ 
derstood  were  perpetually  broached,  both  in  and  out 
of  Parliament,  by  one  enthusiast  wrho  did  not  un¬ 
derstand  himself,  and  by-gone  bugbears  which  had 
lain  quietly  in  their  graves  for  centuries,  were  raised 
again  to  haunt  the  ignorant  and  credulous ;  when 
all  this  was  done,  as  it  were,  in  the  dark,  and  secret 
invitations  to  join  the  Great  Protestant  Association 
in  defense  of  religion,  life,  and  liberty  were  dropped 
in  the  public  ways,  thrust  under  the  house  doors, 
tossed  in  at  windows,  and  pressed  into  the  hands  of 
those  who  trod  the  streets  by  night ;  when  they 
glared  from  every  wall,  and  shone  on  every  post  and 
pillar,  so  that  stocks  and  stones  appeared  infected 
with  the  common  fear,  urging  all  men  to  join  togeth¬ 
er  blindfold  in  resistance  of  they  knew  not  what, 
they  knew  not  why — then  the  mania  spread  indeed, 
and  the  body,  still  increasing  every  day,  grew  forty 
thousand  strong. 

So  said,  at  least,  in  this  month  of  March,  1780,  Lord 
George  Gordon,  the  Association’s  president.  Wheth¬ 
er  it  was  the  fact  or  otherwise,  few  men  knew  or 
cared  to  ascertain.  It  had  never  made  any  public 
demonstration  ;  had  scarcely  ever  been  heard  of,  save 
through  him ;  had  never  been  seen ;  and  was  sup¬ 
posed  by  many  to  be  the  mere  creature  of  his  disor¬ 
dered  brain.  He  was  accustomed  to  talk  largely 
about  numbers  of  men — stimulated,  as  it  was  infer¬ 
red,  by  certain  successful  disturbances,  arising  out 
of  the  same  subject,  which  had  occurred  in  Scotland 
in  the  previous  year ;  was  looked  upon  as  a  cracked- 
brained  member  of  the  lower  house,  who  attacked 
all  parties  and  sided  with  none,  and  was  very  little 
regarded.  It  was  known  that  there  was  discontent 


THE  HOLY  CAUSE. 


121 


abroad — there  always  is;  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  address  the  people  by  placard,  speech,  and  pam¬ 
phlet,  upon  other  questions ;  nothing  had  come,  in  En¬ 
gland,  of  his  past  exertions,  and  nothing  was  appre¬ 
hended  from  his  present.  Just  as  he  has  come  upon 
the  reader,  he  had  come,  from  time  to  time,  upon  the 
public,  and  been  forgotten  in  a  day ;  as  suddenly  as 
lie  appears  in  these  pages,  after  a  blank  of  five  long 
years,  did  he  and  his  proceedings  begin  to  force  them¬ 
selves,  about  this  period,  upon  the  notice  of  thou¬ 
sands  of  people,  who  had  mingled  in  active  life  dur¬ 
ing  the  whole  interval,  and  who,  without  being  deaf 
or  blind  to  passing  events,  had  scarcely  ever  thought 
of  him  before. 

“  My  lord,!’  said  Gashford  in  his  ear,  as  he  drew 
the  curtains  of  his  bed  betimes ;  “  my  lord !” 

“  Yes — who’s  that  ?  What  is  it  V ’ 

“  The  clock  has  struck  nine,”  returned  the  secre¬ 
tary,  with  meekly  folded  hands.  “  You  have  slept 
well  f  I  hope  you  have  slept  well  ?  If  my  prayers 
are  heard,  you  are  refreshed  indeed.” 

“  To  say  the  truth,  I  have  slept  so  soundly,”  said 
Lord  George,  rubbing  his  eyes  and  looking  round 
the  room,  “that  I  don’t  remember  quite — what  place 
is  this  ?” 

“  My  lord !”  cried  Gashford,  with  a  smile. 

“  Oh !”  returned  his  superior.  “  Yes.  You’re  not 
a  Jew,  then  ?” 

“A  Jew !”  exclaimed  the  pious  secretary,  recoiling. 

“I  dreamed  that  we  were  Jews,  Gashford.  You 
and  I — both  of  us — Jews  with  long  beards.” 

“Heaven  forbid,  my  lord!  We  might  as  well  be 
Papists.” 

“  I  suppose  we  might,”  returned  the  other,  very 
quickly.  “  Eh  ?  You  really  think  so,  Gashford  ?” 

“  Surely  I  do,”  the  secretary  cried,  with  looks  of 
great  surprise. 

“Hiuuph!”  he  muttered.  “Yes,  that  seems  rea¬ 
sonable.” 

“  I  hope  my  lord — ”  the  secretary  began. 

“  Hope !”  he  echoed,  interrupting  him.  “  Why  do 
you  say,  you  hope  ?  There’s  no  harm  in  thinking 
of  such  things.” 

“Not  in  dreams,”  returned  the  secretary. 

“  In  dreams !  No,  nor  waking  either.” 

— “  ‘  Called,  and  chosen,  and  faithful,’  ”  said  Gash¬ 
ford,  taking  up  Lord  George’s  watch  which  lay  upon 
a  chair,  and  seeming  to  read  the  inscription  on  the 
seal,  abstractedly. 

It  was  the  slightest  action  possible,  not  obtruded 
on  his  notice,  and  apparently  the  result  of  a  mo¬ 
ment’s  absence  of  mind,  not  worth  remark.  But  as 
the  words  were  uttered,  Lord  George,  who  had  been 
going  on  impetuously,  stopped  short,  reddened,  and 
was  silent.  Apparently  quite  unconscious  of  this 
change  in  his  demeanor,  the  wily  secretary  stepped 
a  little  apart,  under  pretense  of  pulling  up  the  win¬ 
dow-blind,  and  returning  when  the  other  had  had 
time  to  recover,  said : 

“  The  holy  cause  goes  bravely  on,  my  lord.  I  was 
not  idle,  even  last  night.  I  dropped  two  of  the 
handbills  before  I  went  to  bed,  and  both  are  gone 
this  morning.  Nobody  in  the  house  has  mentioned 
the  circumstance  of  finding  them,  though  I  have 
been  down  stairs  full  half  an  hour.  One  or  two  re¬ 
cruits  will  be  their  first  fruit,  I  predict ;  and  who 


shall  say  how  many  more,  with  Heaven’s  blessing  on 
your  inspired  exertions  !’v 

“  It  was  a  famous  device  in  the  beginning,”  re¬ 
plied  Lord  George ;  “  an  excellent  device,  and  did 
good  service  in  Scotland.  It  was  quite  worthy  of 
you.  You  remind  me  not  to  be  a  sluggard,  Gash¬ 
ford,  when  the  vineyard  is  menaced  with  destruc¬ 
tion,  and  may  be  trodden  down  by  Papist  feet.  Let 
the  horses  be  saddled  in  half  an  hour.  We  must  be 
up  and  doing !” 

He  said  this  with  a  heightened  color,  and  in  a 
tone  of  such  enthusiasm,  that  the  secretary  deemed 
all  further  prompting  needless,  and  withdrew. 

— “  Dreamed  he  was  a  Jew,”  he  said  thoughtfully, 
as  he  closed  the  bedroom  door.  “  He  may  come  to 
that  before  he  dies.  It’s  like  enough.  Well !  Af¬ 
ter  a  time,  and  provided  I  lost  nothing  by  it,  I  don’t 
see  why  that  religion  shouldn’t  suit  me  as  well  as 
any  other.  There  are  rich  men  among  the  Jews; 
shaving  is  very  troublesome — yes,  it  would  suit  me 
well  enough.  For  the  present,  though,  we  must  be 
Christian  to  the  core.  Our  prophetic  motto  will 
suit  all  creeds  in  their  turn,  that’s  a  comfort.”  Re¬ 
flecting  on  the  source  of  consolation,  he  reached  the 
sitting-room,  and  rang  the  bell  for  breakfast. 

Lord  George  was  quickly  dressed  (for  his  plain 
toilet  was  easily  made),  and  as  he  was  no  less  frugal 
in  his  repasts  than  in  his  Puritan  attire,  his  share 
of  the  meal  was  soon  dispatched.  The  secretary, 
however,  more  devoted  to  the  good  things  of  this 
world,  or  more  intent  on  sustaining  his  strength  and 
spirits  for  the  sake  of  the  Protestant  cause,  ate  and 
drank  to  the  last  minute,  and  required  indeed  some 
three  or  four  reminders  from  John  Grueby,  before 
he  could  resolve  to  tear  himself  away  from  Mr.  Wil- 
let’s  plentiful  providing. 

At  length  he  came  down  stairs,  wiping  his  greasy 
mouth,  and  having  paid  John  Willet’s  bill,  climbed 
into  his  saddle.  Lord  George,  who  had  been  walk¬ 
ing  up  and  down  before  the  house  talking  to  him¬ 
self  with  earnest  gestures,  mounted  his  horse ;  and 
returning  old  John  Willet’s  stately  bow,  as  well  as 
the  parting  salutation  of  a  dozen  idlers  whom  the 
rumor  of  a  live  lord  being  about  to  leave  the  May- 
pole  had  gathered  round  the  porch,  they  rode  away, 
with  stout  John  Grueby  in  the  rear. 

If  Lord  George  Gordon  had  appeared  in  the  eyes 
of.  Mr.  Willet,  overnight,  a  nobleman  of  somewhat 
quaint  and  odd  exterior,  the  impression  was  con¬ 
firmed  this  morning,  and  increased  a  hundred-fold. 
Sitting  bolt  upright  upon  his  bony  steed,  with  his 
long,  straight  hair,  dangling  about  his  face  and  flut¬ 
tering  in  the  wind ;  his  limbs  all  angular  and  rigid, 
his  elbows  stuck  out  on  either  side  ungracefully,  and 
his  whole  frame  jogged  and  shaken  at  every  motion 
of  his  horse’s  feet ;  a  more  grotesque  or  more  ungain¬ 
ly  figure  can  hardly  be  conceived.  In  lieu  of  whip, 
he  carried  in  his  hand  a  great  gold-headed  cane,  as 
large  as  any  footman  carries  in  these  days ;  and  his 
various  modes  of  holding  this  unwieldy  weapon — 
now  upright  before  his  face  like  the  sabre  of  a  horse- 
soldier,  now  over  his  shoulder  like  a  musket,  now 
between  his  finger  and  thumb,  but  always  in  some 
uncouth  and  awkward  fashion  —  contributed  in  no 
small  degree  to  the  absurdity  of  his  appearance. 
Stiff,  lank,  and  solemn,  dressed  in  an  unusual  man- 


122 


BARNABY  RUB  BE. 


ner,  and  ostentatiously  exhibiting — whether  by  de¬ 
sign  or  accident  —  all  his  peculiarities  of  carriage, 
gesture,  and  conduct,  all  the  qualities,  natural  and 
artificial,  in  which  he  differed  from  other  men ;  he 
might  have  moved  the  sternest  looker-on  to  laugh¬ 
ter,  and  fully  provoked  the  smiles  and  whispered 
jests  which  greeted  his  departure  from  the  Maypole 
Inn. 

Quite  unconscious,  however,  of  the  effect  he  pro¬ 
duced,  he  trotted  on  beside  his  secretary,  talking  to 
himself  nearly  all  the  way,  until  they  came  within 
a  mile  or  two  of  London,  when  now  and  then  some 
passenger  went  by  who  knew  him  by  sight,  and 


score  or  so  of  the  raggedest,  following  at  his  horse’s 
heels,  and  shouting  till  their  throats  were  parched. 

The  old  ladies  too — there  were  a  great  many  old 
ladies  in  the  streets,  and  these  all  knew  him.  Some 
of  them — not  those  of  the  highest  rank,  but  such  as 
sold  fruit  from  baskets  and  carried  burdens — clap¬ 
ped  their  shriveled  hands,  and  raised  a  weazen,  pip¬ 
ing,  shrill  “  Hurra,  my  lord.”  Others  waved  their 
hands  or  handkerchiefs,  or  shook  their  fans  or  para¬ 
sols,  or  threw  up  windows  and  called  in  haste  to 
those  within,  to  come  and  see.  All  these  marks  of 
popular  esteem,  he  received  with  profound  gravity 
and  respect ;  bowing  very  low,  and  so  frequently 


j 


LORD  GEORGE  GORDON  REAVING  THE  MAYPOLE. 


pointed  him  out  to  some  one  else,  and  perhaps  stood 
looking  after  him,  or  cried  in  jest  or  earnest  as  it 
might  be,  “Hurra,  Geordie !  No  popery!”  At 
which  he  would  gravely  pull  off  his  hat,  and  bow. 
When  they  reached  the  town  and  rode  along  the 
streets,  these  notices  became  more  frequent ;  some 
laughed,  some  hissed,  some  turned  their  heads  and 
smiled,  some  wondered  who  he  was,  some  ran  along 
the  pavement  by  his  side  and  cheered.  When  this 
happened  in  a  crush  of  carts  and  chairs  and  coaches, 
he  would  make  a  dead  stop,  and  pulling  off  his  hat, 
cry,  “  Gentlemen,  No  Popery !”  to  which  the  gentle¬ 
men  would  respond  with  lusty  voices,  and  with  three 
times  three ;  and  then,  on  he  would  go  again  with  a 


that  his  hat  was  more  off  his  head  than  on;  and 
looking  up  at  the  houses  as  he  passed  along,  with 
the  air  of  one  who  was  making  a  public  entry,  and 
yet  was  not  puffed  up  or  prond. 

So  they  rode  (to  the  deep  and  unspeakable  dis¬ 
gust  of  John  Grueby)  the  whole  length  of  White¬ 
chapel,  Leadenliall  Street,  and  Cheapside,  and  into 
St.  Paul’s  Church-yard.  Arriving  close  to  the  ca¬ 
thedral,  he  halted;  spoke  to  Gashford;  and  looking 
upward  at  its  lofty  dome,  shook  his  head,  as  though 
he  said  “The  Church  in  danger!”  Then  to  be  sure, 
the  by-standers  stretched  their  throats  indeed ;  and 
he  went  on  again  with  mighty  acclamations  from 
the  mob,  and  lower  bows  than  ever. 


A  REPRESENTATIVE  MAN. 


123 


So  along  the  Strand,  up  Swallow  Street,  into  the 
Oxford  Road,  and  thence  to  his  house  in  Welbeck 
Street,  near  Cavendish  Square,  whither  he  was  at¬ 
tended  by  a  few  dozen  idlers;  of  whom  he  tools 
leave  on  the  steps  with  this  brief  parting,  “  Gentle¬ 
men,  No  Popery.  Good-day.  God  bless  you.”  This 
being  rather  a  shorter  address  than  they  expected, 
was  received  with  some  displeasure,  and  cries  of  “A 
speech !  a  speech !”  which  might  have  been  complied 
with,  but  that  John  Grueby,  making  a  mad  charge 
upon  them  with  all  three  horses,  on  his  way  to  the 
stables,  caused  them  to  disperse  into  the  adjoining 
fields,  where  they  presently  fell  to  pitch  and  toss, 
chuck-farthing,  odd  or  even,  dog-fighting,  and  other 
Protestant  recreations. 

In  the  afternoon  Lord  George  came  forth  again, 
dressed  in  a  black  velvet  coat,  and  trowsers  and 
waistcoat  of  the  Gordon  plaid,  all  of  the  same 
Quaker  cut ;  and  in  this  costume,  which  made  him 
look  a  dozen  times  more  strange  and  singular  than 
before,  went  down  on  foot  to  Westminster.  Gash- 
ford,  meanwhile,  bestirred  himself  in  business  mat¬ 
ters  ;  with  which  he  was  still  engaged  when,  short¬ 
ly  after  dusk,  John  Grueby  entered  and  announced 
a  visitor. 

“  Let  him  come  in,”  said  Gashford. 

“Here!  come  in!”  growled  John  to  somebody 
without.  “  You’re  a  Protestant,  an’t  you  ?” 

11 1  should  think  so,”  replied  a  deep  gruff  voice. 

“  You’ve  the  looks  of  it,”  said  John  Grueby.  “  I’d 
have  known  you  for  one,  anywhere.”  With  which 
remark  he  gave  the  visitor  admission,  retired,  and 
shut  the  door. 

The  man  who  now  confronted  Gashford,  was  a 
squat,  thick-set  personage,  with  a  low,  retreating 
forehead,  a  coarse  shock  head  of  hair,  and  eyes  so 
small  and  near  together,  that  his  broken  nose  alone 
seemed  to  prevent  their  meeting  and  fusing  into  one 
of  the  usual  size.  A  dingy  handkerchief  twisted 
like  a  cord  about  his  neck,  left  its  great  veins  ex¬ 
posed  to  view,  and  they  were  swollen  and  starting, 
as  though  with  gulping  down  strong  passions,  mal¬ 
ice,  and  ill-will.  His  dress  was  of  threadbare  vel¬ 
veteen — a  faded,  rusty,  whitened  black,  like  the  ash¬ 
es  of  a  pipe  or  a  coal-fire  after  a  day’s  extinction ; 
discolored  with  the  soils  of  many  a  stale  debauch, 
and  reeking  yet  with  pot-house  odors.  In  lieu  of 
buckles  at  his  knees,  he  wore  unequal  loops  of  pack- 
thread  ;  and  in  his  grimy  hands  he  held  a  knotted 
stick,  the  knob  of  which  was  carved  into  a  rough 
likeness  of  his  own  vile  face.  Such  was  the  visitor 
who  doffed  his  three-cornered  hat  in  Gashford’s  pres¬ 
ence,  and  waited,  leering,  for  his  notice. 

“Ah!  Dennis !”  cried  the  secretary.  “Sit  down.” 

“I  see  my  lord  down  yonder — ”  cried  the  man, 
with  a  jerk  of  his  thumb  toward  the  quarter  that 
he  spoke  of,  “  and  he  says  to  me,  says  my  lord,  ‘  If 
you’ve  nothing  to  do,  Dennis,  go  up  to  my  house 
and  talk  with  Muster  Gashford.’  Of  course  I’d  noth¬ 
ing  to  do,  you  know.  These  an’t  my  working-hours. 
Ha,  ha !  I  was  a-taking  the  air  when  I  see  my  lord, 
that’s  what  I  was  doing.  I  takes  the  air  by  night, 
as  the  liowles  does,  Muster  Gashford.” 

“And  sometimes  in  the  day-time,  eh?”  said  the 
secretary — “when  you  go  out  in  state,  you  know.” 

**  Ha,  ha !”  roared  the  fellow,  smiting  his  leg ;  “  for 


a  gentleman  as  ’ull  say  a  pleasant  thing  in  a  pleas¬ 
ant  way,  give  me  Muster  Gashford  agin’  all  London 
and  Westminster!  My  lord  an’t  a  bad  ’uu  at  that, 
but  he’s  a  fool  to  you.  Ah,  to  be  sure — when  I  go 
out  in  state.” 

“And  have  your  carriage,”  said  the  secretary; 
“  and  your  chaplain,  eh  ?  and  all  the  rest  of  it  ?” 

“  You’ll  be  the  death  of  me,”  cried  Dennis,  with 
another  roar,  “you  will.  But  what’s  in  the  wind 
now,  Muster  Gashford,”  he  asked  hoarsely,  “  eh  ? 
Are  we  to  be  under  orders  to  pull  down  one  of  them 
Popish  chapels — or  what  ?” 

“  Hush !”  said  the  secretary,  suffering  the  faintest 
smile  to  play  upon  his  face.  “Hush!  God  bless 
me,  Dennis !  We  associate,  you  know,  for  strictly 
peaceable  and  lawful  purposes.” 

“J  know,  bless  you,”  returned  the  man,  thrusting 
his  tongue  into  his  cheek;  “I  entered  a’  purpose, 
didn’t  I !” 

“No  doubt,”  said  Gashford,  smiling  as  before. 
And  when  he  said  so,  Dennis  roared  again,  and 
smote  his  leg  still  harder,  and,  falling  into  fits  of 
laughter,  wiped  his  eyes  with  the  corner  of  his  neck¬ 
erchief,  and  cried,  “  Muster  Gashford  agin’  all  En¬ 
gland  hollow!” 

“Lord  George  and  I  were  talking  of  you  last 
night,”  said  Gashford,  after  a  pause.  “  He  says  you 
are  a  very  earnest  fellow.” 

“  So  I  am,”  returned  the  hangman. 

“And  that  you  truly  hate  the  Papists.” 

“  So  I  do,”  and  he  confirmed  it  with  a  good  round 
oath.  “Lookye  here,  Muster  Gashford,”  said  the 
fellow,  laying  his  hat  and  stick  upon  the  floor,  and 
slowly  beating  the  palm  of  one  hand  with  the  fin¬ 
gers  of  the  other;  “  Ob-serve.  I’m  a  constitutional 
officer  that  works  for  my  living,  and  does  my  work 
creditable.  Do  I,  or  do  I  not  ?” 

“  Unquestionably.” 

“  Very  good.  Stop  a  minute.  My  work  is  sound, 
Protestant,  constitutional,  English  work.  Is  it,  or 
is  it  not  ?” 

“No  man  alive  can  doubt  it.” 

“Nor  dead  neither.  Parliament  says  this  here — 
says  Parliament,  ‘  If  any  man,  woman,  or  child,  does 
any  thing  which  goes  again  a  certain  number  of  our 
acts  ’ — how  many  hanging  laws  may  there  be  at  this 
present  time,  Muster  Gashford  ?  Fifty  ?” 

“  I  don’t  exactly  know  how  many,”  replied  Gash¬ 
ford,  leaning  back  in  his  chair  and  yawning;  “a 
great  number  though.” 

“Well,  say  fifty.  Parliament  says,  ‘If  any  man, 
woman,  or  child,  does  any  thing  again  any  one  of 
them  fifty  acts,  that  man,  woman,  or  child,  shall  be 
worked  off  by  Dennis.’  George  the  Third  steps  in 
when  they  number  very  strong  at  the  end  of  a  ses¬ 
sions,  and  says,  ‘  These  are  too  many  for  Dennis.  I’ll 
have  half  for  myself  and  Dennis  shall  have  half  for 
7/imself;  and  sometimes  he  throws  me  in  one  over 
that  I  don’t  expect,  as  he  did  three  year  ago,  when  I 
got  Mary  Jones,  a  young  woman  of  nineteen  who 
come  up  to  Tyburn  with  a  infant  at  her  breast,  and 
was  worked  off  for  taking  a  piece  of  cloth  off  the 
counter  of  a  shop  in  Ludgate-hill,  and  putting  it 
down  again  when  the  shop-man  see  her;  and  who 
had  never  done  any  harm  before,  and  only  tried  to 
do  that,  in  consequence  of  her  husband  having  been 


124 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


pressed  tliree  weeks  previous,  and  she  being  left  to 
beg,  with  two  young  children — as  was  proved  upon 
the  trial.  Ha,  ha ! — Well !  That  being  the  law  and 
the  practice  of  England,  is  the  glory  of  England, 
an’t  it,  Muster  Gashford  ?” 

“  Certainly,”  said  the  secretary. 

“And  in  times  to  come,”  pursued  the  hangman, 
“  if  our  grandsons  should  think  of  their  grandfa¬ 
thers’  times,  and  find  these  things  altered,  they’ll  say 
‘  Those  were  days  indeed,  and  we’ve  been  going  down 
hill  ever  since.’ — Won’t  they,  Muster  Gashford?” 

“  I  have  no  doubt  they  will,”  said  the  secretary. 

“Well  then,  look  here,”  said  the  hangman,  “if 
these  Papists  gets  into  power,  and  begins  to  boil  and 


it ;  I  mustn’t  have  no  Papists  interfering  with  me,  un¬ 
less  they  come  to  be  worked  oil’  in  course  of  law ;  I 
mustn’t  have  no  biling,  no  roasting,  no  frying — noth¬ 
ing  but  hanging.  My  lord  may  well  call  me  an  ear¬ 
nest  fellow.  In  support  of  the  great  Protestant  prin¬ 
ciple  of  having  plenty  of  that,  I’ll,”  and  here  he  beat 
his  club  upon  the  ground,  “  burn,  fight,  kill — do  any 
thing  you  bid  me,  so  that  it’s  bold  and  devilish  — 
though  the  end  of  it  was,  that  I  got  hung  myself. — 
There,  Muster  Gashford !” 

He  appropriately  followed  up  this  frequent  pros¬ 
titution  of  a  noble  word  to  the  vilest  purposes,  by 
pouring  out  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy  at  least  a  score  of 
most  tremendous  oaths ;  then  wiped  his  heated  face 


Hi 


“ha,  ha!”  eoaeed  the  fellow,  smiting  his  leg;  “foe  a  gentleman  as  ’ull  say  a  pleasant  thing  in  a  pleasant  way,  give 

ME  MUSTEE  GASHFOED  AGIN1  ALL  LONDON  AND  WESTMINSTEB  !’’ 


roast  instead  of  hang,  what  becomes  of  my  work !  If 
they  touch  my  work  that’s  a  part  of  so  many  laws, 
what  becomes  of  the  laws  in  general,  what  becomes 
of  the  religion,  what  becomes  of  the  country ! — Did 
you  ever  go  to  church,  Muster  Gashford  ?” 

“  Ever !”  repeated  the  secretary,  with  some  indig¬ 
nation  ;  “  of  course.” 

“  Well,”  said  the  ruffian,  “  I’ve  been  once — twice, 
counting  the  time  I  was  christened  —  and  when  I 
heard  the  Parliament  prayed  for,  and  thought  how 
many  new  hanging  laws  they  made  every  sessions, 
I  considered  that  I  was  prayed  for.  Now  mind,  Mus¬ 
ter  Gashford,”  said  the  fellow,  taking  up  his  stick 
and  shaking  it  with  a  ferocious  air,  “  I  mustn’t  have 
my  Protestant  work  touched,  nor  this  here  Protest¬ 
ant  state  of  things  altered  in  no  degree,  if  I  can  help 


upon  his  neckerchief,  and  cried,  “No  Popery!  I’m 
a  religious  man,  by  G — !” 

Gashford  had  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  regarding 
him  with  eyes  so  sunken,  and  so  shadowed  by  his 
heavy  brows,  that  for  aught  the  hangman  saw  of 
them,  he  might  have  been  stone  blind.  He  remain¬ 
ed  smiling  in  silence  for  a  short  time  longer,  and  then 
said,  slowly  and  distinctly : 

“You  are  indeed  an  earnest  fellow,  Dennis  —  a 
most  valuable  fellow  —  the  staunchest  man  I  know 
of  in  our  ranks.  But  you  must  calm  yourself ;  you 
must  be  peaceful,  lawful,  mild  as  any  lamb.  I  am 
sure  you  will  be,  though.” 

“  Ay,  ay,  we  shall  see,  Muster  Gashford,  we  shall 
see.  You  won’t  have  to  complain  of  me,”  returned 
the  other,  shaking  his  head. 


MR.  DENNIS'S  SENTIMENTS  ALL  OVER. 


125 


“  I  am  sure  I  shall  not,”  said  the  secretary  in  the 
same  mild  tone, and  with  the  same  emphasis.  “We 
shall  have,  we  think,  about  next  month,  or  May, 
when  this  Papist  relief  hill  comes  before  the  house,  to 
convene  our  whole  body  for  the  first  time.  My  lord 
has  thoughts  of  our  walking  in  procession  through 
the  streets— just  as  an  innocent  display  of  strength 
—  and  accompanying  our  petition  down  to  the  door 
of  the  House  of  Commons.” 

“  The  sooner  the  better,”  said  Dennis,  with  anoth¬ 
er  oath. 

“We  shall  have  to  draw  up  in  divisions,  our  num¬ 
bers  being  so  large ;  and,  I  believe  I  may  venture  to 
say,”  resumed  Gashford,  affecting  not  to  hear  the  in¬ 
terruption,  “  though  I  have  no  direct  instructions  to 
that  effect— that  Lord  George  has  thought  of  you  as 
an  excellent  leader  for  one  of  these  parties.  I  have 
no  doubt  you  would  be  an  admirable  one.” 

“  Try  me,”  said  the  fellow,  with  an  ugly  wink. 

“You  would  be  cool,  I  know,”  pursued  the  secre¬ 
tary,  still  smiling,  and  still  managing  his  eyes  so 
that  he  could  watch  him  closely,  and  really  not  be 
seen  in  turn,  “  obedient  to  orders,  and  perfectly  tem¬ 
perate.  You  would  lead  your  party  into  no  danger, 
I  am  certain.” 

“I’d  lead  them,  Muster  Gashford” — the  hangman 
was  beginning  in  a  reckless  way,  when  Gashford 
started  forward,  laid  his  linger  on  his  lips,  and  feign¬ 
ed  to  write,  just  as  the  door  was  opened  by  John 
Grueby. 

“  Oh !”  said  John,  looking  in;  “  here’s  another  Prot¬ 
estant.” 

“Some  other  room,  John,”  cried  Gashford  in  his 
blandest  voice.  “  I  am  engaged  just  now.” 

But  John  had  brought  this  new  visitor  to  the  door, 
and  he  walked  in  unbidden,  as  the  words  were  utter¬ 
ed  ;  giving  to  view  the  form  and  features,  rough  at¬ 
tire,  and  reckless  air,  of  Hugh. 

■» 

CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

HE  secretary  put  his  hand  before  his  eyes  to 
shade  them  from  the  glare  of  the  lamp,  and  for 
some  moments  looked  at  Hugh  with  a  frowning  brow, 
as  if  he  remembered  to  have  seen  him  lately,  but 
could  not  call  to  mind  where,  or  on  what  occasion. 
His  uncertainty  was  very  brief,  for  before  Hugh  had 
spoken  a  word,  he  said,  as  his  countenance  cleared 
up : 

“Ay,  ay,  I  recollect.  It’s  quite  right,  John,  you 
needn’t  wait.  Don’t  go,  Dennis.” 

“  Your  servant,  master,”  said  Hugh,  as  Grueby  dis¬ 
appeared. 

“  Yours,  friend,”  returned  the  secretary  in  his 
smoothest  manner.  “What  brings  you  here  ?  We 
left  nothing  behind  us,  I  hope  ?” 

Hugh  gave  a  short  laugh,  and  thrusting  his  hand 
into  his  breast,  produced  one  of  the  handbills,  soiled 
and  dirty  from  lying  out-of-doors  all  night,  which  he 
laid  upon  the  secretary’s  desk  after  flattening  it  upon 
his  knee,  and  smoothing  out  the  wrinkles  with  his 
heavy  palm. 

“Nothing  but  that,  master.  It  fell  into  good 
hands,  you  see.” 


“What  is  this!”  said  Gashford,  turning  it  over 
with  an  air  of  perfectly  natural  surprise.  “  Where 
did  you  get  it  from,  my  good  fellow ;  what  does  it 
mean  ?  I  don’t  understand  this  at  all.” 

•  A  little  disconcerted  by  this  reception,  Hugh  look¬ 
ed  from  the  secretary  to  Dennis,  who  had  risen  and 
was  standing  at  the  table  too,  observing  the  stranger 
by  stealth,  and  seeming  to  derive  the  utmost  satis¬ 
faction  from  his  manners  and  appearance.  Consid¬ 
ering  himself  silently  appealed  to  by  this  action,  Mr. 
Dennis  shook  his  head  thrice,  as  if  to  say  of  Gash¬ 
ford,  “  No.  He  don’t  know  any  thing  at  all  about 
it.  I  know  he  don’t.  I’ll  take  my  oath  he  don’t 
and  hiding  his  profile  from  Hugh  with  one  long  end 
of  his  frowzy  neckerchief,  nodded  and  chuckled  be¬ 
hind  this  screen  in  extreme  approval  of  the  secreta¬ 
ry’s  proceedings. 

“It  tells  the  man  that  finds  it,  to  come  here,  don’t 
it?”  asked  Hugh.  “I’m  no  scholar,  myself,  but  I 
showed  it  to  a  friend,  and  he  said  it  did.” 

“  It  certainly  does,”  said  Gashford,  opening  his 
eyes  to  their  utmost  width ;  “  really  this  is  the  most 
remarkable  circumstance  I  have  ever  known.  How 
did  you  come  by  this  piece  of  paper,  my  good  friend  ?” 

“  Muster  Gashford,”  wheezed  the  hangman  under 
his  breath,  “  agin’  all  Newgate !” 

Whether  Hugh  heard  him,  or  saw  by  his  manner 
that  he  was  being  played  upon,  or  perceived  the  sec¬ 
retary’s  drift  of  himself,  he  came  in  his  blunt  way  to 
the  point  at  once. 

“  Here !”  he  said,  stretching  out  his  hand  and  tak¬ 
ing  it  back;  “never  mind  the  bill,  or  what  it  says, 
or  what  it  don’t  say.  You  don’t  know  any  thing 
about  it,  master — no  more  do  I — no  more  does  he,” 
glancing  at  Dennis.  “None  of  us  know  what  it 
means,  or  where  it  comes  from :  there’s  an  end  of 
that.  Now  I  want  to  make  one  against  the  Cath¬ 
olics  ;  I’m  a  No-Popery  man,  and  ready  to  be  sworn 
in.  That’s  .what  I’ve  come  here  for.” 

“  Put  him  down  on  the  roll,  Muster  Gashford,” 
said  Dennis,  approvingly.  “  That’s  the  way  to  go  to 
work — right  to  the  end  at  once,  and  no  palaver.” 

“What’s  the  use  of  shooting  wide  of  the  mark, 
eh,  old  boy !”  cried  Hugh. 

“My  sentiments  all  over!”  rejoined  the  hangman. 
“This  is  the  sort  of  chap  for  my  division,  Muster 
Gashford.  Down  with  him,  sir.  Put  him  on  the 
roll.  I’d  stand  godfather  to  him,  if  he  was  to  be 
christened  in  a  bonfire,  made  of  the  ruins  of  the 
Bank  of  England.” 

With  these  and  other  expressions  of  confidence 
of  the  like  flattering  kind,  Mr.  Dennis  gave  him  a 
hearty  slap  on  the  back,  which  Hugh  was  not  slow 
to  return. 

“No  Popery,  brother!”  cried  the  hangman. 

“No  Property,  brother!”  responded  Hugh. 

“  Popery,  Popery,”  said  the  secretary,  with  his  us¬ 
ual  mildness. 

“  It’s  all  the  same !”  cried  Dennis.  “  It’s  all  right. 
Down  with  him,  Muster  Gashford.  Down  with  ev¬ 
ery  body,  down  with  every  thing !  Hurra  for  the 
Protestant  religion !  That’s  the  time  of  day,  Muster 
Gashford !” 

The  secretary  regarded  them  both  with  a  very  fa¬ 
vorable  expression  of  countenance,  while  they  gave 
loose  to  these  and  other  demonstrations  of  their  pa- 


126 


BARNABY  RJJDGE. 


triotic  purpose;  and  was  about  to  make  some  re¬ 
mark  aloud,  when  Dennis,  stepping  up  to  him,  and 
shading  his  mouth  with  his  hand,  said,  in  a  hoarse 
whisper,  as  he  nudged  him  with  his  elbow : 

“  Don’t  split  upon  a  constitutional  officer’s  profes¬ 
sion,  Muster  Gashford.  There  are  popular  preju¬ 
dices,  you  know,  and  he  mightn’t  like  it.  Wait  till 
he  comes  to  be  more  intimate  with  me.  He’s  a  fine- 
built  chap,  an’t  he  ?” 

“A  powerful  fellow  indeed!” 

“  Did  you  ever,  Muster  Gashford,”  whispered  Den¬ 
nis,  with  a  horrible  kind  of  admiration,  such  as  that 
with  which  a  cannibal  might  regard  his  intimate 
friend  when  hungry — “did  you  ever” — and  here  he 
drew  still  closer  to  his  ear,  and  fenced  his  mouth 
^vith  both  his  open  hands — “  see  such  a  throat  as 
his  ?  Do  but  cast  your  eye  upon  it.  There’s  a  neck 
for  stretching,  Muster  Gashford !” 

The  secretary  assented  to  this  proposition  with 
the  best  grace  he  could  assume  —  it  is  difficult  to 
feign  a  true  professional  relish:  which  is  eccentric 
sometimes — and  after  asking  the  candidate  a  few 
unimportant  questions,  proceeded  to  enroll  him  a 
member  of  the  Great  Protestant  Association  of  En¬ 
gland.  If  any  thing  could  have  exceeded  Mr.  Den¬ 
nis’s  joy  on  the  happy  conclusion  of  this  ceremony, 
it  would  have  been  the  rapture  with  which  he  re¬ 
ceived  the  announcement  that  the  new  member  could 
neither  read  nor  write;  those  two  arts  being  (as  Mr. 
Dennis  swore)  the  greatest  possible  curse  a  civilized 
community  could  know,  and  militating  more  against 
the  professional  emoluments  and  usefulness  of  the 
great  constitutional  office  he  had  the  honor  to  hold, 
than  any  adverse  circumstances  that  could  present 
themselves  to  his  imagination. 

The  enrollment  being  completed,  and  Hugh  hav¬ 
ing  been  informed  by  Gashford,  in  his  peculiar  man¬ 
ner,  of  the  peaceful  and  strictly  lawful  objects  con¬ 
templated  by  the  body  to  which  he  now  belonged — 
during  which  recital  Mr.  Dennis  nudged  him  very 
much  with  his  elbow,  and  made  divers  remarkable 
faces — the  secretary  gave  them  both  to  understand 
that  he  desired  to  be  alone.  Therefore  they  took 
their  leaves  without  delay,  and  came  out  of  the 
house  together. 

“Are  you  walking,  brother?”  said  Dennis. 

“Ay !”  returned  Hugh.  “  Where  you  will.” 

“That’s  social,”  said  his  new  friend.  “Which 
way  shall  we  take  ?  Shall  we  go  and  have  a  look 
at  doors  that  we  shall  make  a  pretty  good  clattering 
at,  before  long — eh,  brother  ?” 

Hugh  answered  in  the  affirmative,  they  went 
slowly  down  to  Westminster,  where  both  houses  of 
Parliament  were  then  sitting.  Mingling  in  the 
crowd  of  carriages,  horses,  servants,  chairmen,  link- 
boys,  porters,  and  idlers  of  all  kinds,  they  lounged 
about ;  while  Hugh’s  new  friend  pointed  out  to  him 
significantly  the  weak  parts  of  the  building,  how 
easy  it  was  to  get  into  the  lobby,  and  so  to  the  very 
door  of  the  House  of  Commons;  and  how  plainly, 
when  they  marched  down  there  in  grand  array, 
their  roars  and  shouts  would  be  heard  by  the  mem¬ 
bers  iiiside;  with  a  great  deal  more  to  the  same 
purpose,  all  of  which  Hugh  received  with  manifest 
delight. 

He  told  him,  too,  who  some  of  the  Lords  and 


Commons  were,  by  name,  as  they  came  in  and  out ; 
whether  they  were  friendly  to  the  Papists  or  other¬ 
wise  ;  and  bade  him  take  notice  of  their  liveries  and 
equipages,  that  he  might  be  sure  of  them,  in  case  of 
need.  Sometimes  he  drew  him  close  to  the  windows 
of  a  passing  carriage,  that  he  might  see  its  master’s 
face  by  the  light  of  the  lamps ;  and,  both  in  respect 
of  people  and  localities,  he  showed  so  much  acquaint¬ 
ance  with  every  thing  around,  that  it  was  plain  he 
had  often  studied  there  before ;  as  indeed,  when  they 
grew  a  little  more  confidential,  he  confessed  he  had. 

Perhaps  the  most  striking  part  of  all  this  was, 
the  number  of  people — never  in  groups  of  more  than 
two  or  three  together — who  seemed  to  be  skulking 
about  the  crowd  for  the  same  purpose.  To  the 
greater  part  of  these,  a  slight  nod  or  a  look  from 
Hugh’s  companion  was  sufficient  greeting ;  but,  now 
and  then,  some  man  would  come  and  stand  beside 
him  in  the  throng,  and,  without  turning  his  head  or 
appearing  to  communicate  with  him,  would  say  a 
word  or  two  in  a  low  voice,  which  he  would  answer 
in  the  same  cautious  manner.  Then  they  would 
part,  like  strangers.  Some  of  these  men  often  re¬ 
appeared  again  unexpectedly  in  the  crowd  close  to 
Hugh,  and,  as  they  passed  by,  pressed  his  hand,  or 
looked  him  sternly  in  the  face ;  but  they  never  spoke 
to  him,  nor  he  to  them ;  no,  not  a  word. 

It  was  remarkable,  too,  that  whenever  they  hap¬ 
pened  to  stand  where  there  was  any  press  of  people, 
and  Hugh  chanced  to  be  looking  downward,  he  was 
sure  to  see  an  arm  stretched  out — under  his  own 
perhaps,  or  perhaps  across  him — which  thrust  some 
paper  into  the  hand  or  pocket  of  a  by-stander,  and 
was  so  suddenly  withdrawn  that  it  was  impossible 
to  tell  from  whom  it  came ;  nor  could  he  see  in  any 
face,  on  glancing  quickly  round,  the  least  confusion 
or  surprise.  They  often  trod  upon  a  paper  like  the 
one  he  carried  in  his  breast,  but  his  companion  whis¬ 
pered  him  not  to  touch  it  or  to  take  it  up — not  even 
to  look  toward  it — so  there  they  let  them  lie,  and 
passed  on. 

When  they  had  paraded  the  street  and  all  the 
avenues  of  the  building  in  this  manner  for  near  two 
hours,  they  turned  away,  and  his  friend  asked  him 
what  he  thought  of  what  he  had  seen,  and  whether 
he  was  prepared  for  a  good  hot  piece  of  work  if  it 
should  come  to  that.  “  The  hotter  the  better,”  said 
Hugh,  “  I’m  prepared  for  any  thing.” — “  So  am  I,” 
said  his  friend,  “  and  so  are  many  of  us ;”  and  they' 
shook  hands  upon  it  with  a  great  oath,  and  with 
many  terrible  imprecations  on  the  Papists. 

As  they  were  thirsty  by  this  time,  Dennis  pro¬ 
posed  that  they  should  repair  together  to  The  Boot, 
where  there  was  good  company  and  strong  liquor. 
Hugh  yielding  a  ready  assent,  they  bent  their  steps 
that  way  with  no  loss  of  time. 

This  Boot  was  a  lone  house  of  public  entertain¬ 
ment,  situated  in  the  fields  at  the  back  of  the  Found¬ 
ling  Hospital ;  a  very  solitary  spot  at  that  period, 
and  quite  deserted  after  dark.  The  tavern  stood  at 
some  distance  from  any  high-road,  and  was  approach¬ 
able  only  by  a  dark  and  narrow  lane ;  so  that  Hugh 
was  much  surprised  to  find  several  people  drinking 
there,  and  great  merriment  going  on.  He  was  still 
more  surprised  to  find  among  them  almost  every 
face  that  had  caught  his  attention  in  the  crowd  ;  but 


ADHESION  OF  THE  UNITED  BULL-DOGS. 


127 


his  companion  having  whispered  him  outside  the 
door,  that  it  was  not  considered  good  manners  at 
The  Boot  to  appear  at  all  curious  about  the  compa¬ 
ny,  he  kept  his  own  counsel,  and  made  no  show  of 
recognition. 

Before  putting  his  lips  to  the  liquor  which  was 
brought  for  them,  Dennis  drank  in  a  loud  voice  the 
health  of  Lord  George  Gordon,  President  of  the  Great 
Protestant  Association ;  which  toast  Hugh  pledged 
likewise,  with  corresponding  enthusiasm.  A  tiddler 
who  was  present,  and  who  appeared  to  act  as  the 
appointed  minstrel  of  the  company,  forthwith  struck 
up  a  Scotch  reel ;  and  that  in  tones  so  invigorating, 
that  Hugh  and  his  friend  (who  had  both  been  drink¬ 
ing  before)  rose  from  their  seats  as  by  previous  con¬ 
cert,  and,  to  the  great  admiration  of  the  assembled 
guests,  performed  an  extemporaneous  No -Popery 
Dance. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

THE  applause  which  the  performance  of  Hugh 
and  his  new  friend  elicited  from  the  company 
at  The  Boot,  had  not  yet  subsided,  and  the  two 
dancers  were  still  panting  from  their  exertions, 
which  had  been  of  a  rather  extreme  and  violent 
character,  when  the  party  was  re-enforced  by  the  ar¬ 
rival  of  some  more  guests,  who,  being  a  detachment 
of  United  Bull-dogs,  were  received  with  very  flat¬ 
tering  marks  of  distinction  and  respect. 

The  leader  of  this  small  party — for,  including  him¬ 
self,  they  were  but  three  in  number — was  our  old 
acquaintance,  Mr.  Tappertit,  who  seemed,  physically 
speaking,  to  have  grown  smaller  with  years  (partic¬ 
ularly  as  to  his  legs,  which  were  stupendously  little), 
but  who,  in  a  moral  point  of  view,  in  personal  dig¬ 
nity  and  self-esteem,  had  swelled  into  a  giant.  Nor 
was  it  by  any  means  difficult  for  the  most  unob¬ 
servant  person  to  detect  this  state  of  feeling  in  the 
quondam  ’prentice,  for  it  not  only  proclaimed  itself 
impressively  and  beyond  mistake  in  his  majestic 
walk  aud  kindling  eye,  but  found  a  striking  means 
of  revelation  in  his  turned-up  nose,  which  scouted 
all  things  of  earth  with  deep  disdain,  and  sought 
communion  with  its  kindred  skies. 

Mr.  Tappertit,  as  chief  or  captain  of  the  Bull-dogs, 
was  attended  by  his  two  lieutenants ;  one,  the  tall 
comrade  of  his  younger  life ;  the  other,  a  ’Prentice 
Knight  in  days  of  yore — Mark  Gilbert,  bound  in  the 
olden  time  to  Thomas  Curzon  of  the  Golden  Fleece. 
These  gentlemen,  like  himself,  were  now  emanci¬ 
pated  from  their  ’prentice  thralldom,  and  served  as 
journeymen ;  but  they  were,  in  humble  emulation 
of  his  great  example,  bold  and  daring  spirits,  and 
aspired  to  a  distinguished  state  in  great  political 
events.  Hence  their  connection  with  the  Protestant 
Association  of  England,  sanctioned  by  the  name  of 
Lord  George  Gordon ;  and  hence  their  present  visit 
to  The  Boot. 

“  Gentlemen !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  taking  off  his 
hat  as  a  great  general  might  in  addressing  his  troops. 
“  Well  met.  My  lord  does  me  and  you  the  honor  to 
send  his  compliments  per  self.” 

“You’ve  seen  my  lord  too,  have  you?”  said  Den¬ 
nis.  “/  see  him  this  afternoon.” 


“  My  duty  called  me  to  the  Lobby  when  our  shop 
shut  up ;  and  I  saw  him  there,  sir,”  Mr.  Tappertit 
replied,  as  he  and  his  lieutenants  took  their  seats. 
“  How  do  you  do  ?” 

“  Lively,  master,  lively,”  said  the  fellow.  “  Here’s 
a  new  brother,  regularly  put  down  in  black  and 
white  by  Muster  Gashford ;  a  credit  to  the  cause ; 
one  of  the  stick-at-nothing  sort ;  one  arter  my  own 
heart.  D’ye  see  him  ?  Has  he  got  the  looks  of  a 
man  that’ll  do,  do  you  think  ?”  he  cried,  as  he  slap¬ 
ped  Hugh  on  the  back. 

“  Looks  or  no  looks,”  said  Hugh,  with  a  drunken 
flourish  of  his  arm,  “  I’m  the  man  you  want.  I  hate 
the  Papists,  every  one  of  ’em.  They  hate  me  and  I 
hate  them.  They  do  me  all  the  harm  they  can,  and 
I’ll  do  them  all  the  harm  I  can.  Hurra !” 

“Was  there  ever,”  said  Dennis,  looking  round  the 
room,  when  the  echo  of  his  boisterous  voice  had  died 
away;  “was  there  ever  such  a  game  boy!  Why,  I 
mean  to  say,  brothers,  that  if  Muster  Gashford  had 
gone  a  hundred  mile  and  got  together  fifty  men  of 
the  common  run,  they  wouldn’t  have  been  worth 
this  one.” 

The  greater  part  of  the  company  implicitly  sub¬ 
scribed  to  this  opinion,  and  testified  their  faith  in 
Hugh  by  nods  and  looks  of  great  significance.  Mr. 
Tappertit  sat  and  contemplated  him  for  a  long  time 
in  silence,  as  if  he  suspended  his  judgment;  then 
drew  a  little  nearer  to  him,  and  eyed  him  over  more 
carefully ;  then  ’went  close  up  to  him,  and  took  him 
apart  into  a  dark  corner. 

“I  say,”  he  began,  with  a  thoughtful  brow, 
“  haven’t  I  seen  you  before  ?” 

“It’s  like  you  may,”  said  Hugh,  in  his  careless 
way.  “I  don’t  know;  shouldn’t  wonder.” 

“No,  but  it’s  very  easily  settled,”  returned  Sim. 
“Look  at  me.  Did  you  ever  see  me  before?  You 
wouldn’t  be  likely  to  forget  it,  you  know,  if  you  ever 
did.  Look  at  me.  Don’t  be  afraid ;  I  won’t  do  you 
any  harm.  Take  a  good  look — steady  now.” 

The  encouraging  way  in  which  Mr.  Tappertit 
made  this  request,  and  coupled  it  with  an  assurance 
that  he  needn’t  be  frightened,  amused  Hugh  might¬ 
ily — so  much  indeed,  that  he  saw  nothing  at  all  of 
the  small  man  before  him,  through  closing  his  eyes 
in  a  fit  of  hearty  laughter,  which  shook  his  great 
broad  sides  until  they  ached  again. 

“  Come !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  growing  a  little  im¬ 
patient  under  this  disrespectful  treatment.  “Do 
you  know  me,  feller?” 

“Not  I,”  cried  Hugh.  “Ha,  ha,  ha!  Not  I.  But 
I  should  like  to.” 

“And  yet  I’d  have  wagered  a  seven-shilling  piece,” 
said  Mr.  Tappertit,  folding  his  arms,  and  confronting 
him  with  his  legs  wide  apart  and  firmly  planted  on 
the  ground,  “  that  you  once  were  hostler  at  the  May- 
pole.” 

Hugh  opened  his  eyes  on  hearing  this,  and  looked 
at  him  in  great  surprise. 

“ — Add  so  you  were,  too,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit, 
pushing  him  away  with  a  condescending  playful¬ 
ness.  “  When  did  my  eyes  ever  deceive — unless  it 
was  a  young  woman  !  Don’t  you  know  me  now  ?” 

“Why  it  an’t — ”  Hugh  faltered. 

“An’t  it,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit.  “Are  you  sure  of 
that  ?  You  remember  G.  Yarden,  don’t  you  ?” 


128 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


Certainly  Hugh  did,  and  he  remembered  D.  Var- 
den  too ;  but  that  he  didn’t  tell  him. 

“  You  remember  coming  down  there,  before  I  was 
out  of  my  time,  to  ask  after  a  vagabond  that  had 
bolted  oft',  and  left  his  disconsolate  father  a  prey  to 
the  bitterest  emotions,  and  all  the  rest  of  it — don’t 
you  ?”  said  Mr.  Tappertit. 

“Of  course  I  do!”  cried  Hugh.  “And  I  saw  you 
there.” 

“Saw  me  there!”  said  Mr.  Tappertit.  “Yes,  I 
should  think  you  did  see  me  there.  The  place 
would  be  troubled  to  go  on  without  me.  Don’t  you 
remember  my  thinking  you  liked  the  vagabond,  and 
on  that  account  going  to  quarrel  with  you ;  and  then 
finding  you  detested  him  worse  than  poison,  going 
to  drink  with  you  ?  Don’t  you  remember  that  ?” 

“  To  be  sure !”  cried  Hugh. 

“  Well !  and  are  you  in  the  same  mind  now  ?”  said 
Mr.  Tappertit. 

“  Yes !”  roared  Hugh. 

“  You  speak  like  a  man,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  “  and 
I’ll  shake  hands  with  you.”  With  these  conciliato¬ 
ry  expressions  he  suited  the  action  to  the  word ;  and 
Hugh  meeting  his  advances  readily,  they  performed 
the  ceremony  with  a  show  of  great  heartiness. 

“  I  find,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  looking  round  on  the 
assembled  guests,  “  that  brother  What’s  -  his  -  name 
and  I  are  old  acquaintance. — You  never  heard  any 
thing  more  of  that  rascal,  I  suppose,  eh  ?” 

“  Not  a  syllable,”  replied  Hugh.  “  I  never  want 
to.  I  don’t  believe  I  ever  shall.  He’s  dead  long  ago, 
I  hope.” 

“  It’s  to  be  hoped,  for  the  sake  of  mankind  in  gen¬ 
eral  and  the  happiness  of  society,  that  he  is,”  said 
Mr.  Tappertit,  rubbing  his  palm  upon  his  legs,  and 
looking  at  it  between  whiles.  “Is  your  other  hand 
at  all  cleaner  ?  Much  the  same.  Well,  I’ll  owe  you 
another  shake.  We’ll  suppose  it  done,  if  you’ve  no 
objection.” 

Hugh  laughed  again,  and  with  such  thorough  aban¬ 
donment  to  his  mad  humor,  that  his  limbs  seemed 
dislocated,  and  his  whole  frame  in  danger  of  tum¬ 
bling  to  pieces ;  but  Mr.  Tappertit,  so  far  from  re¬ 
ceiving  this  extreme  merriment  with  any  irritation,, 
was  pleased  to  regard  it  with  the  utmost  favor,  and 
even  to  join  in  it,  so  far  as  one  of  his  gravity  and  station 
could,  with  any  regard  to  that  decency  and  decorum 
which  men  in  high  places  are  expected  to  maintain. 

Mr.  Tappertit  did  not  stop  here,  as  many  public 
characters  might  have  done,  but  calling  up  his  brace 
of  lieutenants,  introduced  Hugh  to  them  with  high 
commendation ;  declaring  him  to  be  a  man  who,  at 
such  times  as  those  in  which  they  lived,  could  not  be 
too  much  cherished.  Further,  he  did  him  the  honor 
to  remark,  that  he  would  be  an  acquisition  of  which 
even  the  United  Bull-dogs  might  be  proud ;  and  find¬ 
ing,  upon  soundiug  him,  that  he  was  quite  ready  and 
willing  to  enter  the  society  (for  he  was  not  at  all 
particular,  and  would  have  leagued  himself  that 
night  with  any  thing,  or  any  body,  for  any  purpose 
whatsoever),  caused  the  necessary  preliminaries  to 
be  gone  into  upon  the.  spot.  This  tribute  to  his  great 
merit  delighted  no  man  more  than  Mr.  Dennis,  as  he 
himself  proclaimed  with  several  rare  and  surprising 
oaths ;  and  indeed  it  gave  unmingled  satisfaction  to 
the  whole  assembly. 


“Make  any  thing  you  like  of  me!”  cried  Hugh, 
flourishing  the  can  he  had  emptied  more  than  once. 
“Put  me  on  any  duty  you  please.  I’m  your  man. 
I’ll  ho  it.  Here’s  my  captain  —  here’s  my  leader. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  Let  him  give  me  the  word  of  command, 
and  I’ll  fight  the  whole  Parliament  House  single- 
handed,  or  set  a  lighted  torch  to  the  King’s  Throne 
itself!”  With  that,  he  smote  Mr.  Tappertit  on  the 
back,  with  such  violence  that  his  little  body  seemed 
to  shrink  into  a  mere  nothing ;  and  roared  again  un¬ 
til  the  very  foundlings  near  at  hand  were  startled  in 
their  beds. 

In  fact,  a  sense  of  something  whimsical  in  their 
companionship  seemed  to  have  taken  entire  posses¬ 
sion  of  his  rude  brain.  The  bare  fact  of  being  pat¬ 
ronized  by  a  great  man  whom  he  could  have  crushed 
with  one  hand,  appeared  in  his  eyes  so  eccentric  and 
humorous,  that  a  kind  of  ferocious  merriment  gained 
the  mastery  over  him,  and  quite  subdued  his  brutal 
nature.  He  roared  and  roared  again ;  toasted  Mr. 
Tappertit  a  hundred  times  ;  declared  himself  a  Bull¬ 
dog  to  the  core ;  and  vowed  to  be  faithful  to  him  to 
the  last  drop  of  blood  in  his  veins. 

All  these  compliments  Mr.  Tappertit  received  as 
matters  of  course — flattering  enough  in  their  way, 
but  entirely  attributable  to  his  vast  superiority. 
His  dignified  self-possession  only  delighted  Hugh  the 
more ;  and  in  a  word,  this  giant  and  the  dwarf  struck 
up  a  friendship  which  bade  fair  to  be  of  long  contin¬ 
uance,  as  the  one  held  it  to  be  his  right  to  command, 
and  the  other  considered  it  an  exquisite  pleasantry 
to  obey.  Nor  was  Hugh  by  any  means  a  passive  fol¬ 
lower,  who  scrupled  to  act  without  precise  and  defi¬ 
nite  orders ;  for  when  Mr.  Tappertit  mounted  on  an 
empty  cask  which  stood  by  way  of  rostrum  in  the 
room,  and  volunteered  a  speech  upon  the  alarming 
crisis  then  at  hand,  he  placed  himself  beside  the  ora¬ 
tor,  and  though  he  grinned  from  ear  to  ear  at  every 
word  he  said,  threw  out  such  expressive  hints  to  scof¬ 
fers  in  the  management  of  his  cudgel,  that  those  who 
were  at  first  the  most  disposed  to  interrupt,  became 
remarkably  attentive,  and  were  the  loudest  in  their 
approbation. 

It  was  not  all  noise  and  jest,  however,  at  The  Boot, 
nor  were  the  whole  party  listeners  to  the  speech. 
There  were  some  men  at  the  other  end  of  the  room 
(which  was  a  long,  low-roofed  chamber),  in  earnest 
conversation  all  the  time;  and  when  any  of  this 
group  went  out,  fresh  people  were  sure  to  come  in 
soon  afterward  and  sit  down  in  their  places,  as 
though  the  others  had  relieved  them  on  some  watch 
or  duty ;  which  it  was  pretty  clear  they  did,  for  these 
changes  took  place  by  the  clock,  at  intervals  of  half 
an  hour.  These  persons  whispered  very  much  among 
themselves,  and  kept  aloof,  and  often  looked  round, 
as  jealous  of  their  speech  being  overheard  ;  some  two 
or  three  among  them  entered  in  books  what  seemed 
to  be  reports  from  the  others ;  when  they  were  not 
thus  employed,  one  of  them  would  turn  to  the  news¬ 
papers  which  w^ere  strewn  upon  the  table,  and  from 
the  St.  James’s  Chronicle,  the  Herald,  Chronicle,  or 
Public  Advertiser,  would  read  to  the  rest  in  a  low 
voice  some  passage  having  reference  to  the  topic  in 
which  they  were  all  so  deeply  interested.  But  the 
great  attraction  was  a  pamphlet  called  The  Thun¬ 
derer,  which  espoused  their  own  opinions,  and  was 


THE  NO-POPERY  TRIO. 


129 


supposed  at  that  time  to  emanate  directly  from  the 
Association.  This  was  always  in  request ;  and  wheth¬ 
er  read  aloud,  to  an  eager  knot  of  listeners,  or  by 
some  solitary  man,  was  certain  to  be  followed  by 
stormy  talking  and  excited  looks. 

In  the  midst  of  all  his  merriment,  and  admiration 
of  his  captain,  Hugh  was  made  sensible  by  these  and 
other  tokens,  of  the  presence  of  an  air  of  mystery, 
akin  to  that  which  had  so  much  impressed  him  out- 
of-doors.  It  was  impossible  to  discard  a  sense  that 
something  serious  was  going  on,  and  that  under  the 
noisy  revel  of  the  public-house  there  lurked  unseen 
and  dangerous  matter.  Little  affected  by  this,  how¬ 
ever,  he  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  quarters  and 


lected  for  the  office  on  account  of  excessive  age  and 
extraordinary  infirmity,  had  a  custom  of  shutting 
themselves  up  tight  in  their  boxes  on  the  first  symp¬ 
toms  of  disturbance,  and  remaining  there  until  they 
disappeared.  In  these  proceedings,  Mr.  Dennis,  who 
had  a  gruff  voice  and  lungs  of  considerable  power, 
distinguished  himself  very  much,  and  acquired  great 
credit  with  his  two  companions. 

“  What  a  queer  fellow  you  are  !”  said  Mr.  Tapper- 
tit.  “  You’re  so  precious  sly  and  close.  Why  don’t 
you  ever  tell  what  trade  you’re  of  ?” 

“Answer  the  captain  instantly,”  cried  Hugh,  beat¬ 
ing  his  hat  down  on  his  head ;  “  why  don’t  you  ever 
tell  what  trade  you’re  of?” 


60  THEY  ALL  THREE  LEFT  THE  HOUSE  TOGETHER:  ROARING  A  NO-POPERY  SONG  UNTIL  THE  FIELDS  RESOUNDED  WITH  THE  DISMAL  NOISE. 


would  have  remained  there  till  morning,  but  that  his 
conductor  rose  soon  after  midnight,  to  go  home ;  Mr. 
Tappertit  following  his  example,  left  him  no  excuse 
to  stay.  So  they  all  three  left  the  house  together : 
roaring  a  No-Popery  song  until  the  fields  resounded 
with  the  dismal  .noise. 

“Cheer  up,  captain!”  cried  Hugh,  when  they  had 
roared  themselves  out  of  breath.  “Another  stave!” 

Mr.  Tappertit,  nothing  loath,  began  again  ;  and  so 
the  three  went  staggering  on,  arm  in  arm,  shouting 
like  madmen,  and  defying  the  watch  with  great  val¬ 
or.  Indeed  this  did  not  require  any  unusual  bravery 
or  boldness,  as  the  watchmen  of  that  time,  being  se- 

9 


“  I’m  of  as  gen-teel  a  calling,  brother,  as  any  man 
in  England — as  light  a  business  as  any  gentleman 
could  desire.” 

“  Was  you  ’prenticed  to  it?”  asked  Mr.  Tappertit. 

“No.  Natural  genius,”  said  Mr.  Dennis.  “No 
’prenticing.  It  comes  by  natur’.  Muster  Gash  ford 
knows  my  calling.  Look  at  that  hand  of  mine — 
many  and  many  a  job  that  hand  has  done,  with  a 
neatness  and  dex-terity,  never  known  afore.  When 
I  look  at  that  hand,”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  shaking  it  in 
the  air,  “  and  remember  the  helegant  bits  of  work 
it  has  turned  off,  I  feel  quite  mollonclioly  to  think 
it  should  ever  grow  old  and  feeble.  But  sich  is  life !” 


130 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


He  heaved  a  deep  sigh  as  he  indulged  in  these  re¬ 
flections,  and  putting  his  fingers  with  an  absent  air 
on  Hugh’s  throat,  and  particularly  uuder  his  left 
ear,  as  if  he  were  studying  the  anatomical  develop¬ 
ment  of  that  part  of  his  frame,  shook  his  head  in  a 
despondent  manner  and  actually  shed  tears. 

“  You’re  a  kind  of  artist,  I  suppose — eh !”  said  Mr. 
Tappertit. 

“  Yes,”  rejoined  Dennis ;  “  yes — I  n.  ay  call  myself 
a  artist — a  fancy  workman — art  improves  natur’ — 
that’s  my  motto.” 

“  And  what  do  you  call  this  ?”  said  Mr.  Tappertit, 
taking  his  stick  out  of  his  hand. 

“  That’s  my  portrait  atop,”  Dennis  replied ;  “  d’ye 
think  it’s  like  ?” 

“  Why — it’s  a  little  too  handsome,”  said  Mr.  Tap¬ 
pertit.  “Who  did  it?  You?” 

“  I !”  repeated  Dennis,  gazing  fondly  on  his  image. 
“  I  wish  I  had  the  talent.  That  was  carved  by  a 
friend  of  mine,  as  is  now  no  more.  The  very  day 
afore  he  died,  he  cut  that  with  his  pocket-knife  from 
memory !  1  I’ll  die  game,’  says  my  friend,  ‘  and  my 

last  moments  shall  be  dewoted  to  making  Dennis’s 
picter.’  That’s  it.” 

“  That  was  a  queer  fancy,  wasn’t  it  ?”  said  Mr. 
Tappertit. 

“  It  was  a  queer  fancy,”  rejoined  the  other,  breath¬ 
ing  on  his  fictitious  nose,  and  polishing  it  with  the 
cuff  of  his  coat,  “  but  he  was  a  queer  subject  alto¬ 
gether — a  kind  of  gypsy — one  of  the  finest  stand- 
up  men  you  ever  see.  Ah !  He  told  me  some  things 
that  would  startle  you  a  bit,  did  that  friend  of  mine, 
on  the  morning  when  he  died.” 

“You  were  with  him  at  the  time,  were  you?”  said 
Mr.  Tappertit. 

“  Yes,”  he  answered  with  a  curious  look,  “  I  was 
there.  Oh !  yes  certainly,  I  was  there.  He  wouldn’t 
have  gone  off  half  as  comfortable  without  me.  I 
had  been  with  three  or  four  of  his  family  under 
the  same  circumstances.  They  were  all  fine  fel¬ 
lows.” 

“They  must  have  been  fond  of  you,”  remarked 
Mr.  Tappertit,  looking  at  him  sideways. 

“  I  don’t  know  that  they  was  exactly  fond  of  me,” 
said  Dennis,  with  a  little  hesitation,  “but  they  all 
had  me  near  ’em  when  they  departed.  I  come  in 
for  their  wardrobes  too.  This  very  handkeclier  that 
you  see  round  my  neck,  belonged  to  him  that  I’ve 
been  speaking  of — him  as  did  that  likeness.” 

Mr.  Tappertit  glanced  at  the  article  referred  to, 
and  appeared  to  think  that  the  deceased’s  ideas  of 
dress  were  of  a  peculiar  and  by  no  means  au  expen¬ 
sive  kind.  He  made  no  remark  upon  the  point, 
however,  and  suffered  his  mysterious  companion  to 
proceed  without  interruption. 

“  These  smalls,”  said  Dennis,  rubbing  his  legs ; 
“these  very  smalls — they  belonged  to  a  friend  of 
mine  that’s  left  off  sicli  incumbrances  forever :  this 
coat  too — I’ve  often  walked  behind  this  coat,  in  the 
street,  and  wondered  whether  it  would  ever  come  to 
me :  this  pair  of  shoes  have  danced  a  hornpipe  for 
another  man,  afore  my  eyes,  fall  half  a  dozen  times 
at  least:  and  as  to  my  hat,”  he  said,  taking  it  off, 
and  whirling  it  round  upon  his  fist — “Lord!  I’ve 


seen  this  hat  go  up  Holborn  on  the  box  of  a  hack¬ 
ney-coach — ah,  many  and  many  a  day!” 

“  You  don’t  mean  to  say  their  old  wearers  are  all 
dead,  I  hope  ?”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  falling  a  little  dis¬ 
tance  from  him  as  he  spoke. 

“Every  one  of  ’em,”  replied  Dennis.  “Every 
man  Jack.” 

There  was  something  so  very  ghastly  in  this  cir¬ 
cumstance,  and  it  appeared  to  account,  in  such  a 
very  strange  and  dismal  manner,  for  his  faded  dress 
— which,  in  this  new  aspect,  seemed  discolored  by 
the  earth  from  graves — that  Mr.  Tappertit  abrupt¬ 
ly  found  he  was  going  another  way,  and,  stopping 
short,  bade  him  good-night  with  the  utmost  hearti¬ 
ness.  As  they  happened  to  be  near  the  Old  Bailey, 
and  Mr.  Dennis  knew  there  were  turnkeys  in  the 
lodge  with  whom  he  could  pass  the  night,  and  dis¬ 
cuss  professional  subjects  of  common  interest  among 
them  before  a  rousing  fire,  and  over  a  social  glass, 
he  separated  from  his  companions  without  any  great 
regret,  and  warmly  shaking  hands  with  Hugh,  and 
making  an  early  appointment  for  their  meeting  at 
The  Boot,  left  them  to  pursue  their  road. 

“  That’s  a  strange  sort  of  man,”  said  Mr.  Tapper¬ 
tit,  watching  the  hackney-coachman’s  hat  as  it  went 
bobbing  down  the  street.  “  I  don’t  know  what  to 
make  of  him.  Why  can’t  he  have  his  smalls  made 
to  order,  or  wear  live  clothes  at  any  rate  ?” 

“He’s  a  lucky  man,  captain,”  cried  Hugh.  “I 
should  like  to  have  such  friends  as  his.” 

“I  hope  he  don’t  get  ’em  to  make  their  wills,  and 
then  knock  ’em  on  the  head,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit, 
musing.  “But  come.  The  United  B.’s  expect  me. 
On  ! — What’s  the  matter  ?” 

“  I  quite  forgot,”  said  Hugh,  who  had  started  at 
the  striking  of  a  neighboring  clock.  “  I  have  some¬ 
body  to  see  to-night — I  must  turn  back  directly. 
The  drinking  and  singing  put  it  out  of  my  head. 
It’s  well  I  remembered  it !” 

Mr.  Tappertit  looked  at  him  as  though  he  were 
about  to  give  utterauce  to  some  very  majestic  senti¬ 
ments  in  reference  to  this  act  of  desertion,  but  as  it 
was  clear,  from  Hugh’s  hasty  manner,  that  the  en¬ 
gagement  was  one  of  a  pressing  nature,  he  gracious¬ 
ly  forbore,  and  gave  him  his  permission  to  depart 
immediately,  which  Hugh  acknowledged  with  a  roar 
of  laughter. 

“  Good-night,  captain !”  he  cried.  “  I  am  yours  to 
the  death,  remember!” 

“  Farewell !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  waving  his  hand. 
“  Be  bold  and  vigilant !” 

“No  Popery,  captain !”  roared  Hugh. 

“  England  in  blood  first !”  cried  his  desperate  lead¬ 
er.  Whereat  Hugh  cheered  and  laughed,  and  ran 
off  like  a  greyhound. 

“  That  man  will  prove  a  credit  to  my  corps,”  said 
Simon,  turning  thoughtfully  upon  his  heel.  “And 
let  me  see.  In  an  altered  state  of  society — which 
must  ensue  if  we  break  out  and  are  victorious — 
when  the  lock-smith’s  child  is  mine,  Miggs  must  be 
got  rid  of  somehow,  or  she’ll  poison  the  tea-kettle 
one  evening  when  I’m  out.  He  might  marry  Miggs, 
if  he  was  drunk  enough.  It  shall  be  done.  I’ll 
make  a  note  of  it.” 


131 


SIR  JOHN  CHESTER ,  M.P. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

LITTLE  thinking  of  the  plan  for  his  happy  settle¬ 
ment  in  life  which  had  suggested  itself  to  the 
teeming  brain  of  his  provident  commander,  Hugh 
made  no  pause  until  Saint.  Dunstan’s  giants  struck 
the  hour  above  him,  when  he  worked  the  handle  of 
a  pump  which  stood  hard  by,  with  great  vigor,  and 
thrusting  his  head  under  the  spout,  let  the  water 
gush  upon  him  until  a  little  stream  ran  down  from 
every  uncombed  hair,  and  he  was  wet  to  the  waist. 
Considerably  refreshed  by  this  ablution,  both  in  mind 
and  body,  and  almost  sobered  for  the  time,  he  dried 
himself  as  he  best  could  ;  then  crossed  the  road,  and 
plied  the  knocker  of  the  Middle  Temple  gate. 

The  night-porter  looked  through  a  small  grating 
in  the  portal  with  a  surly  eye,  and  cried  “  Halloo  !” 
which  greeting  Hugh  returned  in  kind,  and  bade 
him  open  quickly. 

“We  don’t  sell  beer  here,”  cried  the  man;  “what 
else  do  you  want  ?” 

“  To  come  in,”  he  replied,  with  a  kick  at  the  door. 
“  Where  to  go  ?” 

“  Paper  Buildings.” 

“  Whose  chambers  ?” 

“  Sir  John  Chester’s.”  Each  of  which  answers, 
he  emphasized  with  another  kick. 

After  a  little  growling  on  the  other  side,  the  gate 
was  opened,  and  he  passed  in :  undergoing  a  close 
inspection  from  the  porter  as  he  did  so. 

“  You  wanting  Sir  John,  at  this  time  of  night!” 
said  the  man. 

“Ay !”  said  Hugh.  “  I !  What  of  that  ?” 

“  Why,  I  must  go  with  you  and  see  that  you  do, 
for  I  don’t  believe  it.” 

“  Come  along  then.” 

Eying  him  with  suspicious  looks,  the  man,  with 
key  and  lantern,  walked  on  at  his  side,  and  attended 
him  to  Sir  John  Chester’s  door,  at  which  Hugh  gave 
one  knock,  that  echoed  through  the  dark  staircase 
like  a  ghostly  summons,  and  made  the  dull  light 
tremble  in  the  drowsy  lamp. 

“  Do  you  think  he  wants  me  now  ?”  said  Hugh. 
Before  the  man  had  time  to  answer,  a  footstep 
was  heard  within,  a  light  appeared,  and  Sir  John, 
in  his  dressing-gown  and  slippers,  opened  the  door. 

“  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir  John,”  said  the  porter, 
pulling  off  his  hat.  “Here’s  a  young  man  says  he 
wants  to  speak  to  you.  It’s  late  for  strangers.  I 
thought  it  best  to  see  that  all  was  right.” 

“Aha!”  cried  Sir  John,  raising  his  eyebrows. 
“  It’s  you,  messenger,  is  it  ?  Go  in.  Quite  right, 
friend,  I  commend  your  prudence  highly.  Thank 
you.  God  bless  you.  Good-night.” 

To  be  commended,  thanked,  God-blessed,  and  bade 
good-night  by  one  who  carried  “Sir”  before  his 
name,  and  wrote  himself  M.P.  to  boot,  wTas  some¬ 
thing  for  a  porter.  He  withdrew  w  ith  much  humil¬ 
ity  and  reverence.  Sir  John  followed  his  late  visit¬ 
or  into  the  dressing-room,  and  sitting  in  his  easy- 
chair  before  the  fire,  and  moving  it  so  that  he  could 
see  him  as  he  stood,  hat  in  hand,  beside  the  door, 
looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot. 

The  old  face,  calm  and  pleasant  as  ever  ;  the  com¬ 
plexion,  quite  juvenile  in  its  bloom  and  clearness; 
the  same  smile ;  the  wonted  precision  and  elegance 


of  dress ;  the  white,  well-ordered  teeth ;  the  delicate 
hands ;  the  composed  and  quiet  manner ;  every  thing 
as  it  used  to  be :  no  mark  of  age  or  passion,  envy, 
hate,  or  discontent:  all  unruffled  and  serene,  and 
quite  delightful  to  behold. 

He  wrote  himself  M.P. — but  how?  Why,  thus. 
It  was  a  proud  family — more  proud,  indeed,  than 
wealthy.  He  had  stood  in  danger  of  arrest ;  of  bail¬ 
iffs,  and  a  jail — a  vulgar  jail,  to  which  the  common 
people  writh  small  incomes  went.  Gentlemen  of  an¬ 
cient  houses  have  no  privilege  of  exemption  from 
such  cruel  laws — unless  they  are  of  one  great  house, 
and  then  they  have.  A  proud  man  of  his  stock  and 
kindred  had  the  means  of  sending  him  there.  He 
offered — not  indeed  to  pay  his  debts,  but  to  let  him 
sit  for  a  close  borough  until  his  own  son  came  of 
age,  which,  if  he  lived,  would  come  to  pass  in  twenty 
years.  It  was  quite  as  good  as  an  Insolvent  Act,  and 
infinitely  more  genteel.  So  Sir  John  Chester  was  a 
member  of  Parliament. 

But  how  Sir  John  ?  Nothing  so  simple,  or  so  easy. 
One  touch  with  a  sword  of  state,  and  the  transfor¬ 
mation  was  effected.  John  Chester,  Esquire,  M.P., 
attended  court — went  up  with  an  address — headed 
a  deputation.  Such  elegance  of  manner,  so  many 
graces  of  deportment,  such  powers  of  conversation, 
could  never  pass  unnoticed.  Mr.  was  too  common 
for  such  merit.  A  man  so  gentlemanly  should  have 
been — but  Fortune  is  capricious — born  a  Duke :  just 
as  some  dukes  should  have  been  born  laborers.  He 
caught  the  fancy  of  the  king,  knelt  down  a  grub, 
and  rose  a  butterfly.  John  Chester,  Esquire,  was 
knighted  and  became  Sir  John. 

“  I  thought  when  you  left  me  this  evening,  my 
esteemed  acquaintance,”  said  Sir  John  after  a  pretty 
long  silence,  “that  you  intended  to  return  with  all 
dispatch  ?” 

“  So  I  did,  master.” 

“And  so  you  have?”  he  retorted,  glancing  at  his 
watch.  “  Is  that  what  you  would  say  ?” 

Instead  of  replying,  Hugh  changed  the  leg  on 
which  he  leaned,  shuffled  his  cap  from  one  hand  to 
the  other,  looked  at  the  ground,  the  wmll,  the  ceil¬ 
ing,  and  finally  at  Sir  John  himself;  before  wrhose 
pleasant  face  he  lowered  his  eyes  again,  and  fixed 
them  on  the  floor. 

“And  how  have  you  been  employing  yourself  in 
the  mean  while?”  quoth  Sir  John,  lazily  crossing  his 
legs.  “Where  have  you  been?  What  harm  have 
you  been  doing  ?” 

“No  harm  at  all,  master,”  growled  Hugh,  with 
humility.  “  I  have  only  done  as  you  ordered.” 

“As  I  ivhatf”  returned  Sir  John. 

“Well  then,”  said  Hugh  uneasily,  “as  you  ad¬ 
vised,  or  said  I  ought,  or  said  I  might,  or  said  that 
you  would  do,  if  you  was  me.  Don’t  be  so  hard 
upon  me,  master.” 

Something  like  an  expression  of  triumph  in  the 
perfect  control  he  had  established  over  this  rough 
instrument  appeared  in  the  knight’s  face  for  an  in¬ 
stant  ;  but  it  vanished  directly,  as  he  said — paring 
his  nails  while  speaking: 

“When  you  say  I  ordered  you,  my  good  fellow, 
you  imply  that  I  directed  you  to  do  something  for 
me — something  I  wanted  done — something  for  my 
own  ends  and  purposes — you  see  ?  Now  I  am  sure 


132 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


I  needn’t  enlarge  upon  the  extreme  absurdity  of 
such  an  idea,  however  unintentional:  so  please — ” 
and  here  he  turned  his  eyes  upon  him — “to  he  more 
guarded.  Will  you  ?”  , 

“  I  meant  to  give  you  no  offense,”  said  Hugh.  “  I 
don’t  know  what  to  say.  You  catch  me  up  so  very 
short.” 

“  You  will  be  caught  up  much  shorter,  my  good 
friend — infinitely  shorter — one  of  these  days,  depend 
upon  it,”  replied  his  patron,  calmly.  “  By-the-bye, 
instead  of  wondering  why  you  have  been  so  long, 
my  wonder  should  be  why  you  came  at  all.  Why 
did  you  ?” 

“  You  know,  master,”  said  Hugh,  “  that  I  couldn’t 
read  the  bill  I  found,  and  that  supposing  it  to  be 
something  particular  from  the  way  it  was  wrapped 
up,  I  brought  it  here.” 

“And  could  you  ask  no  one  else  to  read  it,  Bruin  ¥” 
said  Sir  John. 

“No  one  that  I  could  trust  with  secrets,  master. 
Since  Barnaby  Budge  was  lost  sight  of  for  good  and 
all — and  that’s  five  years  ago — I  haven’t  talked  with 
any  one  but  you.” 

“  You  have  done  me  honor  I  am  sure.” 

“  I  have  come  to  and  fro,  master,  all  through  that 
time,  when  there  was  any  thing  to  tell,  because  I 
knew  that  you’d  be  angry  with  me  if  I  staid  away,” 
said  Hugh,  blurting  the  words  out,  after  an  embar¬ 
rassed  silence ;  “  and  because  I  wished  to  please 
you  if  I  could,  and  not  to  have  you  go  against  me. 
There.  That’s  the  true  reason  why  I  came  to-night. 
You  know  that,  master,  I  am  sure.” 

“  You’re  a  specious  fellow,”  returned  Sir  John,  fix¬ 
ing  his  eyes  upon  him,  “  and  carry  two  faces  under 
your  hood,  as  well  as  the  best.  Didn’t  you  give  me 
in  this  room,  this  evening,  any  other  reason ;  no  dis¬ 
like  of  any  body  who  has  slighted  you  lately,  on  all 
occasions,  abused  you,  treated  you  with  rudeness; 
acted  toward  you,  more  as  if  you  were  a  mongrel  dog 
than  a  man  like  himself?” 

“  To  be  sure  I  did !”  cried  Hugh,  his  passion  rising, 
as  the  other  meant  it  should  ;  “  and  I  say  it  all  over 
now,  again.  I’d  do  any  thing  to  have  some  revenge 
on  him — any  thing.  And  when  you  told  me  that  he 
and  all  the  Catholics  would  suffer  from  those  who 
joined  together  under  that  handbill,  I  said  I’d  make 
one  of  ’em,  if  their  master  was  the  devil  himself.  I 
am  one  of  ’em.  See  whether  I  am  as  good  as  my 
word  and  turn  out  to  be  among  the  foremost,  or  no. 
I  mayn’t  have  much  head,  master,  but  I’ve  head 
enough  to  remember  those  that  use  me  ill.  You  shall 
see,  and  so  shall  lie,  and  so  shall  hundreds  more,  how 
my  spirit  backs  me  when  the  time  comes.  My  bark 
is  nothing  to  my  bite.  Some  that  I  know  had  bet¬ 
ter  have  a  wild  lion  among  them  than  me,  when  I  am 
fairly  loose — they  had !” 

The  knight  looked  at  him  with  a  smile  of  far  deep¬ 
er  meaning  than  ordinary ;  and  pointing  to  the  old 
cupboard,  followed  him  with  his  eyes  while  he  filled 
and  drank  a  glass  of  liquor ;  and  smiled  when  his 
back  was  turned,  with  deeper  meaning  yet. 

“  You  are  in  a  blustering  mood,  my  friend,”  he  said, 
when  Hugh  confronted  him  again. 

“  Not  I,  master  !’’  cried  Hugh.  “  I  don’t  say  half 
I  mean.  I  can’t.  I  haven’t  got  the  gift.  There  are 
talkers  enough  among  us ;  I’ll  be  one  of  the  doers.” 


“Oh!  you  have  joined  those  fellows  then?”  said 
Sir  John,  with  an  air  of  most  profound  indifference. 

“  Yes.  I  went  up  to  the  house  you  told  me  of,  and 
got  put  down  upon  the  muster.  There  was  another 
man  there  named  Dennis — ” 

“  Dennis,  eh  ?”  cried  Sir  John,  laughing.  “Ay,  ay ! 
a  pleasant  fellow,  I  believe  ?” 

“  A  roaring  dog,  master — one  after  my  own  heart 
— hot  upon  the  matter  too — red  hot.” 

“  So'  I  have  heard,”  replied  Sir  John,  carelessly. 
“You  don’t  happen  to  know  his  trade,  do  you?” 

“  He  wouldn’t  say,”  cried  Hugh.  “  He  keeps  it 
secret.” 

“  Ha,  ha !”  laughed  Sir  John.  “  A  strange  fancy — 
a  weakness  with  some  persons — you’ll  know  it  one 
day,  I  dare  swear.” 

“  We’re  intimate  already,”  said  Hugh. 

“  Quite  natural !  And  have  been  drinking  togeth¬ 
er,  eh  ?”  pursued  Sir  John.  “  Did  you  say  what  place 
you  went  to  in  company,  when  you  left  Lord  George’s  ?” 

Hugh  had  not  said  or  thought  of  saying,  but  he 
told  him ;  and  this  inquiry  being  followed  by  a  long 
train  of  questions,  he  related  all  that  had  passed  both 
in  and  out  of  doors,  the  kind  of  people  he  had  seen, 
their  numbers,  state  of  feeling,  mode  of  conversation, 
apparent  expectations  and  intentions.  His  question¬ 
ing  was  so  artfully  contrived,  that  he  seemed  even 
in  his  own  eyes  to  volunteer  all  this  information 
rather  than  to  have  it  wrested  from  him  ;  and  he  was 
brought  to  this  state  of  feeling  so  naturally,  that 
when  Mr.  Chester  yawned  at  length  and  declared 
himself  quite  wearied  out,  he  made  a  rough  kind  of 
excuse  for  having  talked  so  much. 

“  There — get  you  gone,”  said  Sir  John,  holding  the 
door  open  in  his  hand.  “  You  have  made  a  pretty 
evening’s  work.  I  told  you  not  to  do  this.  You 
may  get  into  trouble.  You’ll  have  an  opportunity 
of  revenging  yourself  on  your  proud  friend  Haredale, 
though,  and  for  that,  you’d  hazard  any  thing  I  sup- 
pose  ?” 

“  I  would,”  retorted  Hugh,  stopping  in  his  passage 
out  and  looking  back ;  “  but  what  do  I  risk !  What 
do  I  stand  a  chance  of  losing,  master?  Friends, 
home?  A  fig  for  ’em  all;  I  have  none;  they  are 
nothing  to  me.  Give  me  a  good  scuffle ;  let  me  pay 
off  old  scores  in  a  bold  riot  where  there  are  men  to 
stand  by  me  ;  and  then  use  me  as  you  like — it  don’t 
matter  much  to  me  what  the  end  is !” 

“What  have  you  done  with  that  paper?”  said  Sir 
John. 

“  I  have  it  here,  master.” 

“  Drop  it  again  as  you  go  along ;  it’s  as  well  not 
to  keep  such  things  about  you.” 

Hugh  nodded,  and  touching  his  cap  with  an  air  of 
as  much  respect  as  he  could  summon  up,  departed. 

Sir  John,  fastening  the  doors  behind  him,  went 
back  to  his  dregsing-room,  and  sat  down  once  again 
before  the  fire,  at  which  he  gazed  for  a  long  time,  in 
earnest  meditation. 

“  This  happens  fortunately,”  he  said,  breaking  into 
a  smile,  “  and  promises  well.  Let  me  see.  My  rela¬ 
tive  and  I,  who  are  the  most  Protestant  fellows  in 
the  world,  give  our  worst  wishes  to  the  Kornan  Cath¬ 
olic  cause  ;  and  to  Saville,  who  introduces  their  bill, 
I  have  a  personal  objection  besides ;  but  as  each  of 
us  lias  himself  for  the  first  article  in  his  creed,  we 


THE  HARMONIOUS  LOCK-SMITH 


133 


can  not  commit  ourselves  by  joining  with  a  very  ex¬ 
travagant  madman,  such  as  this  Gordon  most  un¬ 
doubtedly  is.  Now  really,  to  foment  his  disturb¬ 
ances  in  secret,  through  the  medium  of  such  a  very 
apt  instrument  as  my  savage  friend  here,  may  fur¬ 
ther  our  real  ends;  and  to  express  at  all  becoming 
seasons,  in  moderate  and  polite  terms,  a  disapproba¬ 
tion  of  his  proceedings,  though  we  agree  with  him 
iu  principle,  will  certainly  be  to  gain  a  character  for 
honesty  and  uprightness  of  purpose,  which  can  not 
fail  to  do  us  infinite  service,  and  to  raise  us  into  some 
importance.  Good!  So  much  for  public  grounds. 
As  to  private  considerations,  I  confess  that  if  these 
vagabonds  would  make  some  riotous  demonstration 
(which  does  .not  appear  impossible),  and  would  in¬ 
flict  some  little  chastisement  on  Haredale  as  a  not 
inactive  man  among  his  sect,  it  would  be  extremely 
agreeable  to  my  feelings,  and  would  amuse  me  be¬ 
yond  measure.  Good  again !  Perhaps  better !” 

When  he  came  to  this  point,  he  took  a  pinch  of 
snuft’ ;  then  beginning  slowly  to  undress,  he  resumed 
his  meditations,  by  saying  with  a  smile : 

“  I  fear,  I  do  fear  exceedingly,  that  my  friend  is 
following  fast  in  the  footsteps  of  his  mother.  His 
intimacy  with  Mr.  Dennis  is  very  ominous.  But  I 
have  no  doubt  he  must  have  come  to  that  end  any 
way.  If  I  lend  him  a  helping  hand,  the  only  differ¬ 
ence  is,  that  he  may,  upon  the  whole,  possibly  drink 
a  few  gallons,  or  puncheons,  or  hogsheads,  less  in 
this  life  than  he  otherwise  would.  It’s  no  business 
of  mine.  It’s  a  matter  of  very  small  importance  !” 

So  he  took  another  pinch  of  snuff,  and  went  to 
bed. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

FROM  the  workshop  of  the  Golden  Key,  there  is¬ 
sued  forth  a  tinkling  sound,  so  merry  and  good- 
humored,  that  it  suggested  the  idea  of  some  one 
working  blithely,  and  made  quite  pleasant  music. 
No  man  who  hammered  on  at  a  dull  monotonous 
duty,  could  have  brought  such  cheerful  notes  from 
steel  and  iron ;  none  but  a  chirping,  healthy,  honest- 
hearted  fellow,  who  made  the  best  of  every  thing, 
and  felt  kiudly  toward  every  body,  could  have  done 
it  for  an  instant.  He  might  have  been  a  copper¬ 
smith,  and  still  been  musical.  If  he  had  sat  in  a 
jolting  wagon,  full  of  rods  of  iron,  it  seemed  as  if  he 
would  have  brought  some  harmony  out  of  it. 

Tink,  tink,  tink — clear  as  a  silver  bell,  and  audi¬ 
ble  at  every  pause  of  the  streets’  harsher  noises,  as 
though  it  said,  “  I  don’t  care  ;  nothing  puts  me  out ; 
I  am  resolved  to  be  happy.”  Women  scolded,  chil¬ 
dren  squalled,  heavy  carts  went  rumbling  by,  horri¬ 
ble  cries  jwoceeded  from  the  lungs  of  hawkers ;  still 
it  struck  in  again,  no  higher,  no  lower,  no  louder, 
no  softer;  not  thrusting  itself  on  people’s  notice  a 
bit  the  more  for  having  been  outdone  by  louder 
sounds — tink,  tink,  tink,  tink,  tink. 

It  was  a  perfect  embodiment  of  the  still  small 
voice,  tree  from  all  cold,  hoarseness,  huskiness,  or 
uuhealtliiness  of  any  kind ;  foot-passengers  slacken¬ 
ed  their  pace,  and  were  disposed  to  linger  near  it ; 
neighbors  who  had  got  up  splenetic  that  morniug, 
ielt  good  humor  stealiug  on  them  as  they  heard  it, 


and  by  degrees  became  quite  sprightly ;  mothers 
danced  their  babies  to  its  ringing;  still  the  same 
magical  tink,  tink,  tink,  came  gayly  from  the  work¬ 
shop  of  the  Golden  Key. 

Who  but  the  lock -smith  could  have  made  such 
music !  A  gleam  of  sun  shining  through  the  un¬ 
sashed  window,  and  checkering  the  dark  workshop 
with  a  broad  patch  of  light,  fell  full  upon  him,  as 
though  attracted  by  his  sunny  heart.  There  he 
stood  working  at  his  anvil,  his  face  all  radiant  with 
exercise  and  gladness,  his  sleeves  turned  up,  his  wig 
pushed  off  his  shining  forehead — the  easiest,  freest, 
happiest  man  in  all  the  world.  Beside  him  sat  a 
sleek  cat,  purring  and  winking  in  the  light,  and  fall¬ 
ing  every  now  and  then  into  an  idle  dose,  as  from 
excess  of  comfort.  Toby  looked  on  from  a  tal  1  bench 
hard  by ;  one  beaming  smile,  from  his  broad  nut- 
brown  face  to  the  slack-baked  buckles  in  his  shoes. 
The  very  locks  that  hung  around  had  something  jo¬ 
vial  in  their  rust,  and  seemed  like  gouty  gentlemen 
of  hearty  natures,  disposed  to  joke  on  their  infirmi¬ 
ties.  There  was  nothing  surly  or  severe  in  tbe  whole 
scene.  It  seemed  impossible  that  any  one  of  the  in¬ 
numerable  keys  could  fit  a  churlish  strong-box  or  a 
prison  door.  Cellars  of  beer  and  wine,  rooms  where 
there  were  fires,  books,  gossip,  and  cheering  laugh¬ 
ter — these  were  their  proper  sphere  of  action.  Places 
of  distrust  and  cruelty,  and  restraint,  they  would 
have  left  quadruple-locked  forever. 

Tink,  tink,  tink.  The  lock-smith  paused  at  last, 
and  wiped  his  brow.  The  silence  roused  the  cat, 
who,  jumping  softly  down,  crept  to  the  door,  and 
watched  with  tiger  eyes  a  bird-cage  in  an  opposite 
window.  Gabriel  lifted  Toby  to  his  mouth,  and 
took  a  hearty  draught. 

Then,  as  he  stood  upright,  with  his  head  flung 
back,  and  his  portly  chest  thrown  out,  you  would 
have  seen  that  Gabriel’s  lower  man  was  clothed  in 
military  gear.  Glancing  at  the  wall  beyond,  there 
might  have  been  espied,  hanging  on  their  several 
pegs,  a  cap  and  feather,  broad-sword,  sash,  and  coat 
of  scarlet ;  which  any  man  learned  in  such  matters 
would  have  known  from  their  make  and  pattern  to 
be  the  uniform  of  a  sergeant  in  the  Royal  East  Lon¬ 
don  Volunteers. 

As  the  lock-smith  put  his  mug  down,  empty,  on 
the  bench  whence  it  had  smiled  on  him  before,  he 
glanced  at  these  articles  with  a  laughing  eye,  and 
looking  at  them  with  his  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
as  though  he  would  get  them  all  into  a  focus,  said, 
leaning  on  his  hammer : 

“  Time  was,  now,  I  remember,  when  I  was  like  to 
run  mad  with  the  desire  to  wear  a  coat  of  that  col¬ 
or.  If  any  one  (except  my  father)  had  called  me 
a  fool  for  my  pains,  how  I  should  have  fired  and 
fumed !  But  what  a  fool  I  must  have  been,  sure-ly !” 

“Ah!”  sighed  Mrs.  Varden,  who  had  entered  un¬ 
observed.  “A  fool  indeed.  A  man  at  your  time  of 
life,  Varden,  should  know  better  now.” 

“  Why,  what  a  ridiculous  woman  you  are,  Martha,” 
said  the  lock-smith,  turning  round  with  a  smile. 

“  Certainly,”  replied  Mrs.  V.  with  great  demure¬ 
ness.  “  Of  course  I  am.  I  know  that,  Varden. 
Thank  you.” 

“  I  mean — ”  began  the  lock-smith. 

“Yes,”  said  his  wife,  “I  know  what  you  mean. 


134 


BAR NAB  ¥  BUDGE. 


“  It’s  unchristian,”  cried  Mrs.  Yarden,  shaking  her 
head. 

“  Unchristian !”  said  the  lock-smith.  “  Why,  what 
the  devil — ” 

Mrs.  Varclen  looked  at  the  ceiling,  as  in  expecta- 
tion  that  the  consequence  of  this  profanity  would 
he  the  immediate  descent  of  the  four-post  bedstead 
on  the  second  floor,  together  with  the  best  sitting- 


unchristian  for  ?  Which  would  be  most  unchristian, 
Martha — to  sit  quietly  down  and  let  our  houses  be 
sacked  by  a  foreign  army,  or  to  turn  out  like  men 
and  drive  ’em  off  ?  Shouldn’t  I  be  a  nice  sort  of  a 
Christian,  if  I  crept  into  a  corner  of  my  own  chim¬ 
ney  and  looked  on  while  a  parcel  of  whiskered  sav¬ 
ages  bore  off  Dolly — or  you  ?” 

When  he  said  “  or  you,”  Mrs.  Yarden,  despite  her- 


You  speak  quite  plain  enough  to  be  understood,  Var- 
den.  It’s  very  kind  of  you  to  adapt  yourself  to  my 
capacity,  I  am  sure.” 

“Tut,  tut,  Martha,”  rejoined  the  lock -smith; 
“don’t  take  offense  at  nothing.  I  mean,  how 
strange  it  is  of  you  to  run  down  volunteering,  when 
it’s  done  to  defend  you  and  all  the  other  women, 
and  our  own  fireside  and  every  body  else’s,  in  case 
of  need.” 


room  on  the  first;  but  no  visible  judgment  occur¬ 
ring,  she  heaved  a  deep  sigh,  and  begged  her  hus¬ 
band,  in  a  tone  of  resignation,  to  go  on,  and  by  all 
means  to  blaspheme  as  much  as  possible,  because  he 
knew  she  liked  it. 

The  lock-smith  did  for  a  moment  seem  disposed  to 
gratify  her,  but  he  gave  a  great  gulp,  and  mildly  re¬ 
joined  : 

“  I  was  going  to  say,  what  on  earth  do  you  call  it 


GAB1UEL  VARDEN. 


DOLLY  V ARDEN  STILL ! 


135 


self,  relaxed  iuto  a  smile.  There  was  something 
complimentary  in  the  idea.  “  In  such  a  state  of 
things  as  that,  indeed — ”  she  simpered. 

“As  that !”  repeated  the  lock-smith.  “  Well,  that 
would  be  the  state  of  things  directly.  Even  Miggs 
would  go.  Some  black  tambourine  player,  with  a 
great  turban  on,  would  be  bearing  her  off,  and,  un¬ 
less  the  tambourine-player  was  proof  against  kick¬ 
ing  and  scratching,  it’s  my  belief  he’d  have  the 
worst  of  it.  Ha,  ha,  ha !  I’d  forgive  the  tambour¬ 
ine -player.  I  wouldn’t  have  him  interfered  with 
on  any  account,  poor  fellow.”  And  here  the  lock¬ 
smith  laughed  again  so  heartily,  that  tears  came 
iuto  his  eyes — much  to  Mrs.  Varden’s  indignation, 
who  thought  the  capture  of  so  sound  a  Protestant 
and  estimable  a  private  character  as  Miggs  by  a  pa¬ 
gan  negro,  a  circumstance  too  shocking  and  awful 
for  contemplation. 

The  picture  Gabriel  had  drawn,  indeed,  threaten¬ 
ed  serious  consequences,  and  would  indubitably  have 
led  to  them,  but  luckily  at  that  moment  a  light  foot¬ 
step  crossed  the  threshold,  and  Dolly,  running  in, 
threw  her  arms  round  her  old  father’s  neck  and  hug¬ 
ged  him  tight! 

“Here  she  is  at  last!”  cried  Gabriel.  “And  how 
well  you  look,  Doll,  and  how  late  you  are,  my  dar¬ 
ling!” 

How  well  she  looked  ?  Well  ?  Why,  if  he  had 
exhausted  every  laudatory  adjective  in  the  diction¬ 
ary,  it  wouldn’t  have  been  praise  enough.  When 
and  where  was  there  ever  such  a  plump,  roguish, 
comely,  bright-eyed,  enticing,  bewitching,  captiva¬ 
ting,  maddening  little  puss  in  all  this  world,  as  Dol¬ 
ly!  What  was  the  Dolly  of  five  years  ago,  to  the 
Dolly  of  that  day!  How  many  coach-makers,  sad¬ 
dlers,  cabinet-makers,  and  professors  of  other  use¬ 
ful  arts,  had  deserted  their  fathers,  mothers,  sisters, 
brothers,  and,  most  of  all,  their  cousins,  for  the  love 
of  her !  How  many  unknown  gentlemen — supposed 
to  be  of  mighty  fortuues,  if  not  titles — had  waited 
round  the  corner  after  dark,  and  tempted  Miggs  the 
incorruptible,  with  golden  guineas,  to  deliver  offers 
of  marriage  folded  up  in  love-letters !  How  many 
disconsolate  fathers  and  substantial  tradesmen  had 
waited  on  the  lock-smith  for  the  same  purpose,  with 
dismal  tales  of  how  their  sons  had  lost  their  appe¬ 
tites,  and  taken  to  shut  themselves  up  in  dark  bed¬ 
rooms,  and  wandering  in  desolate  suburbs  with  pale 
faces,  and  all  because  of  Dolly  Varden’s  loveliness 
and  cruelty!  How  many  young  men,  in  all  previ¬ 
ous  times  of  unprecedented  steadiness,  had  turned 
suddenly  wild  and  wicked  for  the  same  reason,  and, 
in  an  ecstasy  of  unrequited  love,  taken  to  wrench 
off  door-knockers,  and  invert  the  boxes  of  rheumatic 
watchmen !  How  had  she  recruited  the  kind’s  serv- 
ice,  both  by  sea  and  land,  through  rendering  des¬ 
perate  his  loving  subjects  between  the  ages  of  eight¬ 
een  and  twenty-five !  How  many  young  ladies  had 
publicly  professed,  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  that  for 
their  tastes  she  was  much  too  short,  too  tall,  too 
bold,  too  cold,  too  stout,  too  thin,  too  fair,  too  dark 
— too  every  thing  but  handsome!  How  many  old 
ladies,  taking  counsel  together,  had  thanked  Heaven 
their  daughters  were  not  like  her,  and  had  hoped  she 
might  come  to  no  harm,  and  had  thought  she  would 
come  to  no  good,  and  had  wondered  what  people  saw 


in  her,  and  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion  that  she 
was  “going  off”  in  her  looks,  or  had  never  come  on 
in  them,  and  that  she  was  a  thorough  imposition  and 
a  popular  mistake ! 

And  yet  here  was  this  same  Dolly  Varden,  so 
whimsical  and  hard  to  please  that  she  was  Dolly 
Varden  still,  all  smiles  and  dimples  and  pleasant 
looks,  and  cariug  no  more  for  the  fifty  or  sixty 
young  fellows  who  at  that  very  moment  were  break¬ 
ing  their  hearts  to  marry  her,  than  if  so  many  oys¬ 
ters  had  been  crossed  in  love  and  opened  afterward. 

Dolly  hugged  her  father  as  has  been  already  stated, 
and  having  hugged  her  mother  also,  accompanied 
both  into  the  little  parlor  where  the  cloth  was  al¬ 
ready  laid  for  dinner,  and  where  Miss  Miggs — a  trifle 
more  rigid  and  bony  than  of  yore — received  her  with 
a  sort  of  hysterical  gasp,  intended  for  a  smile.  Into 
the  hands  of  that  young  virgin,  she  delivered  her 
bonnet  and  walking  dress  (all  of  a  dreadful,  artful, 
and  designing  kind),  and  then  said  with  a  laugh, 
which  rivaled  the  lock-smith’s  music,  “  How  glad  I 
always  am  to  be  at  home  again !” 

“And  how  glad  we  always  are,  Doll,”  said  her  fa¬ 
ther,  putting  back  the  dark  hair  from  her  sparkling 
eyes,  “to  have  you  at  home.  Give  me  a  kiss.” 

If  there  had  been  any  body  of  the  male  kind  there 
to  see  her  do  it — but  there  was  not — it  was  a  mercy. 

“I  don’t  like  your  being  at  the  Warren,”  said  the 
lock-smith,  “I  can’t  bear  to  have  you  out  of  my 
sight.  And  what  is  the  news  over  yonder,  Doll?” 

“  What  news  there  is,  I  think  you  know  already,” 
replied  his  daughter.  “I  am  sure  you  do,  though.” 

“Ay  ?”  cried  the  lock-smith.  “  What’s  that ?” 

“Come,  come,”  said  Dolly,  ^you  know  very  well. 
I  want  you  to  tell  me  why  Mr.  Haredale — oh,  how 
gruff  he  is  again,  to  be  sure!— has  been  away  from 
home  for  some  days  past,  and  why  he  is  traveling 
about  (we  know  he  is  traveling,  because  of  his  let¬ 
ters)  without  telling  his  own  niece  why  or  where¬ 
fore.” 

“  Miss  Emma  doesn’t  want  to  know,  I’ll  swear,” 
returned  the  lock-smith. 

“  I  don’t  know  that,”  said  Dolly ;  “  but  I  do,  at 
any  rate.  Do  tell  me.  Why  is  he  so  secret,  and 
what  is  this  ghost  story,  which  nobody  is  to  tell 
Miss  Emma,  and  which  seems  to  be  mixed  up  with 
his  going  away  ?  Now  I  see  you  know  by  your  col¬ 
oring  so.” 

“What  the  story  means,  or  is,  or  has  to  do  with 
it,  I  know  no  more  than  you,  my  dear,”  returned  the 
lock-smith,  “except  that  it’s  some  foolish  fear  of  lit¬ 
tle  Solomon’s — which  has,  indeed,  no  meaning  in  it, 
I  suppose.  As  to  Mr.  Haredale’s  journey,  he  goes, 
as  I  believe — ” 

“Yes,”  said  Dolly. 

“As  I  believe,”  resumed  the  lock-smith,  pinching 
her  cheek,  “  on  business,  Doll.  What  it  may  be,  is 
quite  another  matter.  Read  Blue  Beard,  and  don’t 
be  too  curious,  pet ;  it’s  no  business  of  yours  or  mine, 
depend  upon  that ;  aud  here’s  dinner,  which  is  much 
more  to  the  purpose.” 

Dolly  might  have  remonstrated  against  this  sum¬ 
mary  dismissal  of  the  subject,  notwithstanding  the 
appearance  of  dinner,  but  at  the  mention  of  Blue 
Beard  Mrs.  Varden  interposed,  protesting  she  could 
not  find  it  in  her  conscience  to  sit  tamely  by,  aud 


136 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


hear  her  child  recommended  to  peruse  the  advent¬ 
ures  of  a  Turk  and  Mussulman — far  less  of  a  fabu¬ 
lous  Turk,  which  she  considered  that  potentate  to 
be.  She  held  that,  in  such  stirring  and  tremendous 
times  as  those  in  which  they  lived,  it  would  be  much 
more  to  the  purpose  if  Dolly  became  a  regular  sub¬ 
scriber  to  the  Thunderer,  where  she  would  have  an 
opportunity  of  reading  Lord  George  Gordon’s  speech¬ 
es  word  for  word,  which  would  be  a  greater  comfort 
and  solace  to  her,  than  a  hundred  and  fifty  Blue 
Beards  ever  could  impart.  She  appealed  in  support 
of  this  proposition  to  Miss  Miggs,  then  in  waiting, 
who  said  that  indeed  the  peace  of  mind  she  had  de¬ 
rived  from  the  perusal  of  that  paper  generally,  but 
especially  of  one  article  of  the  very  last  week  as 
ever  was,  entitled  “  Great  Britain  drenched  in  gore,” 
exceeded  all  belief;  the  same  composition,  she  add¬ 
ed,  had  also  wrought  such  a  comforting  effect  on  the 
mind  of  a  married  sister  of  hers,  then  resident  at 
Golden  Lion  Court,  number  twenty -sivin,  second 
bell-handle  on  the  right-hand  door-post,  that,  being 
in  a  delicate  state  of  health,  and  in  fact  expecting 
an  addition  to  her  family,  she  had  been  seized  with 
fits  directly  after  its  perusal,  and  had  raved  of  the 
Inquisition  ever  since ;  to  the  great  improvement 
of  her  husband  and  friends.  Miss  Miggs  went  on 
to  say  that  she  w'ould  recommend  all  those  whose 
hearts  wTere  hardened  to  hear  Lord  George  them¬ 
selves,  whom  she  commended  first,  in  respect  of  his 
steady  Protestantism,  then  of  his  oratory,  then  of 
his  eyes,  then  of  his  nose,  then  of  his  legs,  and  lastly 
of  his  figure  generally,  which  she  looked  upon  as  fit 
for  any  statue,  prince,  or  angel,  to  which  sentiment 
Mrs.  Varden  fully  subscribed. 

Mrs.  Varden  having  cut  in,  looked  at  a  box  upon 
the  mantel-shelf,  painted  in  imitation  of  a  very  red¬ 
brick  dwelling-house,  with  a  yellow  roof;  having 
at  top  a  real  chimney,  down  which  voluntary  sub¬ 
scribers  dropped  their  silver,  gold,  or  pence,  into  the 
parlor ;  and  on  the  door  the  counterfeit  present¬ 
ment  of  a  brass  plate,  whereon  was  legibly  inscribed 
“  Protestant  Association :” — and  looking  at  it,  said, 
that  it  was  to  her  a  source  of  poignant  misery  to 
think  that  Varden  never  had,  of  all  his  substance, 
dropped  any  thing  into  that  temple,  save  one  in  se¬ 
cret — as  she  afterward  discovered — two  fragments 
of  tobacco-pipe,  which  she  hoped  would  not  be  put 
down  to  his  last  account.  That  Dolly,  she  was 
grieved  to  say,  was  no  less  backward  in  her  contri¬ 
butions,  better  loving,  as  it  seemed,  to  purchase  rib¬ 
bons  and  such  gauds,  than  to  encourage  the  great 
cause,  then  in  such  heavy  tribulation  ;  and  that  she 
did  entreat  her  (her  father  she  much  feared  could 
not  be  moved)  not  to  despise,  but  imitate,  the  bright 
example  of  Miss  Miggs,  who  flung  her  wages,  as  it 
were,  into  the  very  countenance  of  the  Pope,  and 
bruised  his  features  with  her  quarter’s  money. 

“  Oh,  mim,”  said  Miggs,  “  don’t  relude  to  that.  I 
had  no  intentions,  mim,  that  nobody  should  know. 
Such  sacrifices  as  I  can  make,  are  quite  a  widder’s 
mite.  It’s  all  I  have,”  cried  Miggs  with  a  great 
burst  of  tears — for  with  her  they  never  came  on  by 
degrees — “but  it’s  made  up  to  me  in  other  ways; 
it’s  well  made  up.” 

This  was  quite  true,  though  not  perhaps  in  the 
sense  that  Miggs  intended.  As  she  never  failed  to 


keep  her  self-denial  full  in  Mrs.  Vardeu’s  view,  it 
drew  forth  so  many  gifts  of  caps  and  gowns  and 
other  articles  of  dress,  that  upon  the  whole  the  red¬ 
brick  house  was  perhaps  the  best  investment  for  her 
small  capital  she  could  possibly  have  it  upon ;  re¬ 
turning  her  interest,  at  the  rate  of  seven  or  eight 
per  cent,  in  money,  and  fifty  at  least  in  personal  re¬ 
pute  and  credit. 

“You  needn’t  cry,  Miggs,”  said  Mrs.  Varden,  her¬ 
self  in  tears ;  “  you  needn’t  be  ashamed  of  it,  though 
your  poor  mistress  is  on  the  same  side.” 

Miggs  howled  at  this  remark,  in  a  peculiarly  dis¬ 
mal  way,  and  said  she  knowed  that  master  hated  her. 
That  it  was  a  dreadful  thing  to  live  in  families  and 
have  dislikes,  and  not  give  satisfactions.  That  to 
make  divisions  was  a  thing  she  could  not  abear  to 
think  of,  neither  could  her  feelings  let  her  do  it. 
That  if  it  was  master’s  wishes  as  she  and  him  should 
part,  it  was  best  they  should  part,  and  she  hoped  he 
might  be  the  happier  for  it,  and  always  wishes  him 
well,  and  that  he  might  find  somebody  as  would 
meet  his  dispositions.  It  would  be  a  hard  trial,  she 
said,  to  part  from  such  a  missis,  but  she  could  meet 
any  suffering  when  her  conscience  told  her  she  was 
in  the  rights,  and  therefore  she  was  willing  even  to 
go  that  lengths.  She  did  not  think,  she  added,  that 
she  could  long  survive  the  separations,  but,  as  she 
was  hated  and  looked  upon  unpleasant,  perhaps  her 
dying  as  soon  as  possible  would  be  the  best  endings 
for  all  parties.  With  this  affecting  conclusion,  Miss 
Miggs  shed  more  tears,  and  sobbed  abundantly. 

“Can  you  bear  this,  Varden ?”  said  his  wife,  in  a 
solemn  voice,  laying  down  her  knife  and  fork. 

“Why, not  very  well, my  dear,”  rejoined  the  lock¬ 
smith,  “but  I  try  to  keep  my  temper.” 

“  Don’t  let  there  be  wmrds  on  my  account,  mim,” 
sobbed  Miggs.  “  It’s  much  the  best  that  we  should 
part.  I  wouldn’t  stay — oh,  gracious  me ! — and  make 
dissensions,  not  for  a  annual  gold  mine,  and  found  in 
tea  and  sugar.” 

Lest  the  reader  should  be  at  any  loss  to  discover 
the  cause  of  Miss  Miggs’s  deep  emotion,  it  may  be 
whispered  apart,  that,  happening  to  be  listening,  as 
her  custom  sometimes  was,  when  Gabriel  and  his 
wife  conversed  together,  she  had  heard  the  lock¬ 
smith’s  joke  relative  to  the  foreign  black  who  played 
the  tambourine,  and  bursting  with  the  spiteful  feel¬ 
ings  which  the  taunt  awoke  in  her  fair  breast,  ex¬ 
ploded  in  the  manner  we  have  witnessed.  Matters 
having  now  arrived  at  a  crisis,  the  lock-smith,  as  us¬ 
ual,  and  for  the  sake  of  peace  and  quietness,  gave  in. 

“  What  are  you  crying  for,  girl  ?”  he  said.  “  What’s 
the  matter  with  you?  What  are  you  talking  about 
hatred  for  ?  I  don’t  hate  you  ;  I  don’t  hate  any  body. 
Dry  your  eyes  and  make  yourself  agreeable,  in  Heav¬ 
en’s  name,  and  let  us  all  be  happy  while  we  can.” 

The  allied  powers  deeming  it  good  generalship  to 
consider  this  a  sufficient  apology  on  the  part  of  the 
enemy,  and  confession  of  having  been  in  the  wrong, 
did  dry  their  eyes  and  take  it  in  good  part.  Miss 
Miggs  observed  that  she  bore  no  malice,  no  not  to 
her  greatest  foe,  whom  she  rather  loved  the  more  in¬ 
deed,  the  greater  persecution  she  sustained.  Mrs. 
Varden  approved  of  this  meek  and  forgiving  spirit 
in  high  terms,  and  incidentally  declared  as  a  closing 
article  of  agreement,  that  Dolly  should  accompany 


THE  LOCK-SMITH’S  MISSION V. 


137 


her  to  the  Clerkenwell  branch  of  the  association  that 
very  night.  This  was  an  extraordinary  instance  of 
her  great  prudence  and  policy ;  having  had  this  end 
in  view  from  the  first,  and  entertaining  a  secret  mis¬ 
giving:  that  the  lock-smith  (who  was  bold  when  Dol- 
ly  was  in  question)  would  object,  she  had  backed 
Miss  Miggs  up  to  this  point,  in  order  that  she  might 
have  him  at  a  disadvantage.  The  manoeuvre  suc¬ 
ceeded  so  well  that  Gabriel  only  made  a  wry  face, 
and  with  the  warning  he  had  just  had,  fresh  in  his 
mind,  did  not  dare  to  say  one  word. 

The  difference  ended,  therefore,  in  Miggs  being 
presented  with  a  gown  by  Mrs.  Varden  and  half  a 
crown  by  Dolly,  as  if  she  had  eminently  distinguish¬ 
ed  herself  in  .the  paths  of  morality  and  goodness. 
Mrs.  V.,  according  to  custom,  expressed  her  hope  that 
Varden  would  take  a  lesson  from  what  had  passed 
and  learn  more  generous  conduct  for  the  time  to 
come ;  and  the  dinner  being  now  cold  and  nobody’s 
appetite  very  much  improved  by  what  had  passed, 
they  went  on  with  it,  as  Mrs.  Varden  said,  “like 
Christians.” 

As  there  was  to  be  a  grand  parade  of  the  Royal 
East  London  Volunteers  that  afternoon,  the  lock¬ 
smith  did  no  more  work ;  but  sat  down  comfortably 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  his  arm  round  his 
pretty  daughter’s  waist,  looking  lovingly  on  Mrs.  V., 
from  time  to  time,  and  exhibiting  from  the  crown  of 
his  head  to  the  sole  of  his  foot,  one  smiling  surface 
of  good  humor.  And  to  be  sure,  when  it  was  time 
to  dress  him  in  his  regimentals,  and  Dolly,  hanging 
about  him  in  all  kinds  of  graceful  winning  ways, 
helped  to  button  and  buckle  and  brush  him  up  and 
get  him  into  one  of  the  tightest  coats  that  ever  was 
made  by  mortal  tailor,  he  wras  the  proudest  father  in 
all  England. 

“What  a  handy  jade  it  is!”  said  the  lock-smith  to 
Mrs.  Varden,  who  stood  bv  with  folded  hands — rath- 
er  proud  of  her  husband  too — while  Miggs  held  his 
cap  and  sword  at  arms-length,  as  if  mistrusting  that 
the  latter  might  run  some  one  through  the  body  of 
its  own  accord ;  “  but  never  marry  a  soldier,  Doll, 
my  dear.” 

Dolly  didn’t  ask  why  not,  or  say  a  word,  indeed, 
but  stooped  her  head  down  very  low  to  tie  his  sash. 

“  I  never  wear  this  dress,”  said  honest  Gabriel, 
“but  I  think  of  poor  Joe  Willet.  I  loved  Joe;  he 
was  always  a  favorite  of  mine.  Poor  Joe!  Dear 
heart,  my  girl,  don’t  tie  me  in  so  tight.” 

Dolly  laughed — not  like  herself  at  all — the  stran¬ 
gest  little  laugh  that  could  be — and  held  her  head 
down  lower  still. 

“  Poor  Joe !”  resumed  the  lock-smith,  muttering  to 
himself ;  “  I  always  wish  he  had  come  to  me.  I  might 
have  made  it  up  between  them,  if  he  had.  Ah  !  old 
John  made  a  great  mistake  in  his  way  of  acting  by 
that  lad — a  great  mistake.  Have  you  nearly  tied 
that  sash,  my  dear  f” 

V  hat  an  ill  -  made  sash  it  was !  There  it  was, 
loose  agaiu,  and  trailing  on  the  ground.  Dolly  was 
obliged  to  kneel  down,  and  recommence  at  tho  be¬ 
ginning. 

■*  Never  mind  young  Willet,  Varden,”  said  his  wife, 
frowning;  “you  might  find  some  one  more  deserv¬ 
ing  to  talk  about,  I  think.” 

Miss  Miggs  gave  a  great  sniff  to  the  same  effect. 


“  Nay,  Martha,”  cried  the  lock-smith,  “  don’t  let  us 
bear  too  hard  upon  him.  If  the  lad  is  dead  indeed, 
we’ll  deal  kindly  by  his  memory.” 

“A  runaway  and  a  vagabond!”  said  Mrs.  Varden. 

Miss  Miggs  expressed  her  concurrence  as  before. 

“  A  runaway,  my  dear,  but  not  a  vagabond,”  re¬ 
turned  the  lock-smith  in  a  gentle  tone.  “  He  behaved 
himself  well,  did  Joe — always — and  was  a  handsome, 
manly  fellow.  Don’t  call  him  a  vagabond,  Martha.” 

Mrs.  Varden  coughed — and  so  did  Miggs. 

“  He  tried  hard  to  gain  your  good  opinion,  Mar¬ 
tha,  I  can  tell  you,”  said  the  lock-smith  smiling,  and 
stroking  his  chin.  “Ah  !  that  he  did.  It  seems  but 
yesterday  that  he  followed  me  out  to  the  Maypole 
door  one  night,  and  begged  me  not  to  say  how  like  a 
boy  they  used  him — say  here,  at  home,  he  meant, 
though  at  the  time,  I  recollect,  I  didn’t  understand. 
‘And  how’s  Miss  Dolly,  sir?’  says  Joe,”  pursued  the 
lock-smith,  musing  sorrowfully.  “Ah!  Poor  Joe!” 

“  Well,  I  declare,”  cried  Miggs.  “  Oh !  Goodness 
gracious  me !” 

“  What’s  the  matter  now  ?”  said  Gabriel,  turning 
sharply  to  her. 

“Why,  if  here  an’t  Miss  Dolly,”  said  the  hand¬ 
maid,  stooping  down  to  look  into  her  face,  “  a-giving 
way  to  floods  of  tears.  Oh  mim !  oh  sir.  Raly  it’s 
give  me  such  a  turn,”  cried  the  susceptible  damsel, 
pressing  her  hand  upon  her  side  to  quell  the  palpita¬ 
tion  of  her  heart,  “  that  you  might  knock  me  down 
with  a  feather.” 

The  lock-smith,  after  glancing  at  Miss  Miggs  as 
if  he  could  have  wished  to  have  a  feather  brought 
straight  way,  looked  on  with  a  broad  stare  while  Dolly 
hurried  away,  followed  by  that  sympathizing  young 
woman :  then  turning  to  his  wife,  stammered  out, 
“  Is  Dolly  ill  ?  Have  I  done  any  thing  ?  Is  it  my 
fault  ?” 

“  Your  fault !”  cried  Mrs.  V.,  reproachfully.  “  There 
— you  had  better  make  haste  out.” 

“What  have  I  done?”  said  poor  Gabriel.  “It 
was  agreed  that  Mr.  Edward’s  name  was  never  to  be 
mentioned,  and  I  have  not  spoken  of  him,  have  I?” 

Mrs.  Varden  merely  replied  that  she  had  no  pa¬ 
tience  with  him,  and  bounced  off  after  the  other 
two.  The  unfortunate  lock-smith  wound  his  sash 
about  him,  girded  on  his  sword,  put  on  his  cap,  and 
walked  out. 

“  I  am  not  much  of  a  dab  at  my  exercise,”  he  said 
under  his  breath,  “but  I  shall  get  into  fewer  scrapes 
at  that  work  than  at  this.  Every  man  came  into 
the  world  for  something ;  my  department  seems  to 
be  to  make  every  woman  cry  without  meaning  it. 
It’s  rather  hard !” 

But  he  forgot  it  before  he  reached  the  end  of  the 
street,  and  went  on  with  a  shining  face,  nodding  to 
the  neighbors,  and  showering  about  his  friendly 
greetings  like  mild  spring  rain. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

THE  Royal  East  London  Volunteers  made  a  brill¬ 
iant  sight  that  day :  formed  into  lines,  squares, 
circles,  triangles,  and  what  not,  to  the  beating  of 
drums,  and  the  streaming  of  flags ;  and  performed  a 


138 


.  BABNABY  BUDGE. 


vast  number  of  complex  evolutions,  in  all  of  which 
Sergeant  Varden  bore  a  conspicuous  share.  Having 
displayed  their  military  prowess  to  the  utmost  in 
these  warlike  shows,  they  marched  in  glittering  or¬ 
der  to  the  Chelsea  Bun-house,  and  regaled  in  the  ad¬ 
jacent  taverns  until  dark.  Then  at  sound  of  drum 
they  fell  in  again,  and  returned  amidst  the  shouting 
of  His  Majesty’s  lieges  to  the  place  from  whence 
they  came. 

The  homeward  march  being  somewhat  tardy — 
owing  to  the  unsoldier-like  behavior  of  certain  cor¬ 
porals,  who,  being  gentlemen  of  sedentary  pursuits 
in  private  life  and  excitable  out-of-doors,  broke  sev¬ 
eral  windows  with  their  bayonets,  and  rendered  it 
imperative  on  the  commanding  officer  to  deliver 
them  over  to  a  strong  guard,  with  whom  they  fought 
at  intervals  as  they  came  along — it  was  nine  o’clock 
when  the  lock-  smith  reached  home.  A  hackney- 
coach  was  waiting  near  his  door ;  and  as  he  passed 
it,  Mr.  Haredale  looked  from  the  window  and  called 
him  by  his  name. 

“The  sight  of  you  is  good  for  sore  eyes,  sir,”  said 
the  lock-smith,  stepping  up  to  him.  “  I  wish  you 
had  walked  in  though,  rather  than  waited  here.” 

“  There  is  nobody  at  home,  I  find,”  Mr.  Haredale 
answered ;  “  besides,  I  desired  to  be  as  private  as  I 
could.” 

“  Humph !”  muttered  the  lock-smith,  looking  round 
at  his  bouse.  “  Gone  with  Simon  Tappertit  to  that 
precious  Branch,  no  doubt.” 

Mr.  Haredale  invited  him  to  come  into  the  coach, 
and,  if  he  were  not  tired  or  anxious  to  go  home,  to 
ride  with  him  a  little  way  that  they  might  have 
some  talk  together.  Gabriel  cheerfully  complied, 
and  the  coachman  mounting  his  box  drove  off. 

“Varden,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  after  a  minute’s 
pause,  “you  will  be  amazed  to  hear  what  errand  I 
am  on ;  it  will  seem  a  very  strange  one.” 

“I  have  no  doubt  it’s  a  reasonable  one,  sir,  and 
has  a  meaning  in  it,”  replied  the  lock-smith ;  “  or 
it  would  not  be  yours  at  all.  Have  you  just  come 
back  to  town,  sir  ?” 

“  But  half  an  hour  ago.” 

“  Bringing  no  news  of  Barnaby,  or  his  mother  ?” 
said  the  lock-smith,  dubiously.  “Ah!  you  needn’t 
shake  your  head,  sir.  It  was  a  wild-goose  chase.  I 
feared  that,  from  the  first.  You  exhausted  all  rea¬ 
sonable  means  of  discovery  when  they  went  away. 
To  begin  again  after  so  long  a  time  has  passed  is 
hopeless,  sir — quite  hopeless.” 

“  Why,  where  are  they  ?”  he  returned,  impatiently. 

“  Where  can  they  be  ?  Above  ground  ?” 

“God  knows,”  rejoined  the  lock  -  smith,  “  many 
that  I  knew  above  it  five  years  ago,  have  their  beds 
under  the  grass  now.  And  the  world  is  a  wide 
place.  It’s  a  hopeless  attempt,  sir,  believe  me.  We 
must  leave  the  discovery  of  this  mystery,  like  all 
others,  to  time,  and  accident,  and  Heaven’s  pleasure.” 

“Varden,  my  good  fellow,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “I 
have  a  deeper  meaning  in  my  present  anxiety  to  find 
them  out,  than  vou  can  fathom.  It  is  not  a  mere 
whim  ;  it  is  not  the  casual  revival  of  my  old  wishes 
and  desires ;  but  an  earnest,  solemn  purpose.  My 
thoughts  and  dreams  all  tend  to  it,  and  fix  it  in  my  1 
mind.  I  have  no  rest  by  day  or  night ;  I  have  no  1 
peace  or  quiet ;  I  am  haunted.” 


His  voice  was  so  altered  from  its  usual  tones,  and 
his  manner  bespoke  so  much  emotion,  that  Gabriel, 
in  his  wonder,  could  only  sit  and  look  toward  him 
in  the  darkness,  and  fancy  the  expression  of  his  face. 

“  Do  not  ask  me,”  continued  Mr.  Haredale,  “  to 
explain  myself.  If  I  were  to  do  so,  you  would  think 
me  the  victim  of  some  hideous  fancy.  It  is  enough 
that  this  is  so,  and  that  I  can  not — no,  I  can  not — 
lie  quietly  in  my. bed,  without  doing  what  will  seem 
to  you  incomprehensible.” 

“Since  when,  sir,”  said  the  lock -smith  after  a 
pause,  “  has  this  uneasy  feeling  been  upon  you  ?” 

Mr.  Haredale  hesitated  for  some  moments,  and 
then  replied :  “  Since  the  night  of  the  storm.  In 
short,  since  the  last  nineteenth  of  March.” 

As  though  he  feared  that  Varden  might  express 
surprise,  or  reason  with  him,  he  hastily  went  on : 

“You  will  think,  I  know,  I  labor  under  some  de¬ 
lusion.  Perhaps  I  do.  But  it  is  not  a  morbid  one  ; 
it  is  a  wholesome  action  of  the  mind,  reasoning  on 
actual  occurrences.  You  know  the  furniture  re¬ 
mains  in  Mrs.  Pudge’s  house,  and  that  it  has  been 
shut  up,  by  my  orders,  since  she  went  away,  save 
once  a  week  or  so,  when  an  old  neighbor  visits  it  to 
scare  away  the  rats.  I  am  on  my  way  there  now.” 

“  For  what  purpose  ?”  asked  the  lock-smith. 

“To  pass  the  night  there,”  he  replied;  “and  not 
to-night  alone,  but  many  nights.  This  is  a  secret 
winch  I  trust  to  you  in  case  of  any  unexpected 
emergency.  You  will  not  come,  unless  in  case  of 
strong  necessity,  to  me ;  from  dusk  to  broad  day  I 
shall  be  there.  Emma,  your  daughter,  and  the  rest, 

.  suppose  me  out  of  London,  as  I  have  been  until 
within  this  hour.  Do  not  undeceive  them.  This 
is  the  errand  I  am  bound  upon.  I  know  I  may  con¬ 
fide  it  to  you,  and  I  rely  upon  your  questioning  me 
no  more  at  this  time.” 

With  that,  as  if  to  change  the  theme,  he  led  the 
astounded  lock-smith  back  to  the  night  of  the  May- 
pole  highwayman,  to  the  robbery  of  Edwrard  Ches¬ 
ter,  to  the  re-appearance  of  the  man  at  Mrs.  Pudge’s 
house,  and  to  all  the  strange  circumstances  which 
afterward  occurred.  He  even  asked  him  carelessly 
about  the  man’s  height,  his  face,  his  figure,  whether 
he  was  like  any  one  he  had  ever  seen — like  Hugh, 
for  instance,  or  any  man  he  had  known  at  any  time 
— and  put  many  questions  of  that  sort,  wrhich  the 
lock-smith,  considering  them  as  mere  devices  to  en¬ 
gage  his  attention  and  prevent  his  expressing  the 
astonishment  he  felt,  answered  pretty  much  at  ran¬ 
dom. 

At  length  they  arrived  at  the  corner  of  the  street 
in  which  the  house  stood,  where  Mr.  Haredale,  alight¬ 
ing,  dismissed  the  coach.  “  If  you  desire  to  see  me 
safely  lodged,”  he  said,  turning  to  the  lock-smith 
with  a  gloomy  smile,  “  you  can.” 

Gabriel,  to  whom  all  former  marvels  had  been 
nothing  in  comparison  with  this,  followed  him  along 
the  narrow  pavement  in  silence.  When  they  reach¬ 
ed  the  door,  Mr.  Haredale  softly  opened  it  with  a  key 
he  had  about  him,  and  closing  it  when  Varden  enter¬ 
ed,  they  were  left  in  thorough  darkness. 

They  groped  their  wray  into  the  ground-floor  room. 
Here  Mr.  Haredale  struck  a  light,  and  kindled  a  pock- 
1  et-taper  he  had  brought  with  him  for  the  purpose. 
It  wras  then,  w  hen  the  flame  was  full  upon  him,  that 


I 


A  GRIM  WATCHMAN. 


139 


the  lock-smith  saw  for  the  first  time  how  haggard, 
pale,  and  changed  ho  looked;  how  worn  and  thin 
he  was;  how  perfectly  his  whole  appearance  coin¬ 
cided  with  all  that  he  had  said  so  strangely  as  they 
rode  along.  It  was  not  an  unnatural  impulse  in  Ga¬ 
briel,  after  what  he  had  h^ard,  to  note  curiously  the 
expression  of  his  eyes.  It  was  perfectly  collected  and 
rational ;  so  much  so,  indeed,  that  he  felt  ashamed 
of  his  momentary  suspicion,  and  drooped  his  own 
when  Mr.  Haredale  looked  toward  him,  as  if  he  fear¬ 
ed  they  would  betray  his  thoughts. 

“Will  you  walk  through  the  house!”  said  Mr. 
Haredale,  with  a  glance  toward  the  window,  the 
crazy  shutters  of  which  were  closed  and  fastened. 
“  Speak  low.” 

There  was  a  kind  of  awe  about  the  place,  which 
would  have  rendered  it  difficult  to  speak  in  any  oth¬ 
er  manner.  Gabriel  whispered  “  Yes,”  and  followed 
him  up  stairs. 

Every  thing  was  just  as  they  had  seen  it  last. 
There  was  a  sense  of  closeness  from  the  exclusion 
of  fresh  air,  and  a  gloom  and  heaviness  around,  as 
though  long  imprisonment  had  made  the  very  silence 
sad.  The  homely  hangings  of  the  beds  and  windows 
had  begun  to  droop ;  the  dust  lay  thick  upon  their 
dwindling  folds;  and  damps  had  made  their  way 
through  ceiliug,  wall,  and  floor.  The  boards  creak¬ 
ed  beneath  their  tread,  as  if  resenting  the  unaccus¬ 
tomed  intrusion ;  nimble  spiders,  paralyzed  by  the 
taper’s  glare,  checked  the  motion  of  their  hundred 
legs  upon  the  wall,  or  dropped  like  lifeless  things 
upon  the  ground  ;  the  death-watch  ticked  ;  and  the 
scampering  feet  of  rats  and  mice  rattled  behind  the 
wainscot. 

As  they  looked  about  them  on  the  decaying  furni¬ 
ture,  it  was  strange  to  find  how  vividly  it  presented 
those  to  whom  it  had  belonged,  and  with  whom  it 
was  once  familiar.  Grip  seemed  to  perch  again  upon 
his  high-backed  chair ;  Barnaby  to  crouch  in  his  old 
favorite  corner  by  the  fire ;  the  mother  to  resume 
her  usual  seat,  and  watch  him  as  of  old.  Eveu  when 
they  could  separate  these  objects  from  the  phantoms 
of  the  mind  which  they  invoked,  the  latter  only 
glided  out  of  sight,  but  lingered  near  them  still ;  for 
then  they  seemed  to  lurk  in  closets  and  behind  the 
doors,  ready  to  start  out  and  suddenly  accost  them 
in  well-remembered  tones. 

They  went  down  stairs,  and  again  into  the  room 
they  had  just  now  left.  Mr.  Haredale  unbuckled  his 
sword  and  laid  it  on  the  table,  with  a  pair  of  pocket- 
pistols  ;  then  told  the  lock-smith  he  would  light  him 
to  the  door. 

“  But  this  is  a  dull  place,  sir,”  said  Gabriel,  linger¬ 
ing  ;  “  may  no  one  share  your  watch  !” 

He  shook  his  head,  and  so  plainly  evinced  his  wish 
to  be  alone,  that  Gabriel  could  say  no  more.  In  an¬ 
other  moment  the  lock-smith  was  standing  in  the 
street,  whence  he  could  see  that  the  light  once  more 
traveled  up  stairs,  and  soon  returning  to  the  room 
below,  shone  brightly  through  the  chinks  of  the 
shutters. 

It  ever  man  were  sorely  puzzled  and  perplexed, 
the  lock-smith  was  that  night.  Even  when  snugly 
seated  by  his  own  fireside,  with  Mrs.  Varden  opposite 
in  a  night- cap  and  night-jacket,  and  Dolly  beside 
him  (in  a  most  distracting  dishabille)  curling  her 


hair,  and  smiling  as  if  she  had  never  cried  in  all  her 
life  and  never  could — even  then,  with  Toby  at  his 
elbow  and  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  and  Miggs  (but  that 
perhaps  was  not  much)  falling  asleep  in  the  back¬ 
ground,  he  could  not  quite  discard  his  wonder  and 
uneasiness.  So  in  his  dreams — still  there  was  Mr. 
Haredale,  haggard  and  careworn,  listening  in  the  sol¬ 
itary  house  to  every  sound  that  stirred,  with  the  ta¬ 
per  shining  through  the  chinks  until  the  day  should 
turn  it  pale  and  end  his  nightly  watching. 

♦ - 

CHAPTER  XLIII. 

~JVTEXT  morning  brought  no  satisfaction  to  the 
-L.1  lock-smith’s  thoughts,  nor  next  day,  nor  the 
next,  nor  many  others.  Often  after  night-fall  he  en¬ 
tered  the  street,  and  turned  his  eyes  toward  the  well- 
known  house ;  and  as  surely  as  he  did  so,  there  was 
the  solitary  light,  still  gleaming  through  the  crevices 
of  the  window-shutter,  while  all  within  was  motion¬ 
less,  noiseless,  cheerless,  as  a  grave.  Unwilling  to 
hazard  Mr.  Haredale’s  favor  by  disobeying  his  strict 
injunction,  he  never  ventured  to  knock  at  the  door 
or  to  make  his  presence  known  in  any  way.  But 
whenever  strong  interest  and  curiosity  attracted  him 
to  the  spot — which  was  not  seldom — the  light  was 
always  there. 

If  he  could  have  known  what  passed  within,  the 
knowledge  would  have  yielded  him  no  clue  to  this 
mysterious  vigil.  At  twilight,  Mr.  Haredale  shut 
himself  up,  and  at  day -break  he  came  forth.  He 
never  missed  a  night,  always  came  and  went  alone, 
and  never  varied  his  proceedings  in  the  least  degree. 

The  manner  of  his  watch  was  this.  At  dusk  he 
entered  the  house  in  the  same  way  as  when  the 
lock-smith  bore  him  company,  kindled  a  light,  went 
through  the  rooms,  and  narrowly  examined  them. 
That  done,  he  returned  to  the  chamber  on  the  ground- 
floor,  and  laying  his  sword  and  pistols  on  the  table, 
sat  by  it  until  morning. 

He  usually  had  a  book  with  him,  and  often  tried 
to  read,  but  never  fixed  his  eyes  or  thoughts  upon  it 
for  five  minutes  together.  The  slightest  noise  with¬ 
out  doors  caught  his  ear ;  a  step  upon  the  pavement 
seemed  to  make  his  heart  leap. 

He  was  not  without  some  refreshment  during  the 
long  lonely  hours ;  generally  carrying  in  his  pocket 
a  sandwich  of  bread  and  meat,  and  a  small  flask  of 
wine.  The  latter,  diluted  with  large  quantities  of 
water,  he  drank  in  a  heated,  feverish  way,  as  though 
his  throat  were  dried ;  but  he  scarcely  ever  broke 
his  fast,  by  so  much  as  a  crumb  of  bread. 

If  this  voluntary  sacrifice  of  sleep  and  comfort 
had  its  origin,  as  the  lock -smith  on  consideration 
was  disposed  to  think,  in  any  superstitious  expecta¬ 
tion  of  the  fulfillment  of  a  dream  or  vision  connected 
with  the  event  on  which  he  had  brooded  for  so  many 
years,  and  if  he  waited  for  some  ghostly  visitor  who 
walked  abroad  when  men  lay  sleeping  in  their  beds, 
he  showed  no  trace  of  fear  or  wavering.  His  stern 
features  expressed  inflexible  resolution ;  his  brows 
were  puckered,  and  his  lips  compressed,  with  dee]) 
and  settled  purpose ;  and  when  he  started  at  a  noise 
and  listened,  it  was  not  with  the  start  of  fear  but 


140 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


hope,  and  catching  up  his  sword  as  though  the  hour 
had  come  at  last,  he  would  clutch  it  in  his  tight- 
clenched  hand,  and  listen  with  sparkling  eyes  and 
eager  looks,  until  it  died  away. 

These  disappointments  were  numerous,  for  they 
ensued  on  almost  every  sound,  but  his  constancy 
was  not  shaken.  Still,  every  night  he  was  at  his 
post,  the  same  stern,  sleepless  sentinel ;  and  still 
night  passed,  and  morning  dawned,  and  he  must 
wfitch  again. 

This  went  on  for  weeks ;  he  had  taken  a  lodging 
at  Yauxhall  in  which  to  pass  the  day  and  rest  him¬ 
self;  and  from  this  place,  when  the  tide  served,  he 
usually  came  to  London  Bridge  from  Westminster 
by  water,  in  order  that  he  might  avoid  the  busy 
streets. 

One  evening,  shortly  before  twilight,  he  came  his 
accustomed  road  upon  the  river’s  bank,  intending  to 
pass  through  Westminster  Hall  into  Palace  Yard, 
and  there  take  boat  to  London  Bridge  as  usual. 
There  was  a  pretty  large  concourse  of  people  assem¬ 
bled  round  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  looking  at  the 
members  as  they  entered  and  departed,  and  giving 
vent  to  rather  noisy  demonstrations  of  approval  or 
dislike,  according  to  their  known  opinions.  As  he 
made  his  way  among  the  throng,  he  heard  once  or 
twice  the  No-Popery  cry,  which  was  then  becoming 
pretty  familiar  to  the  ears  of  most  men ;  but  hold¬ 
ing  it  in  very  slight  regard,  and  observing  that  the 
idlers  were  of  the  lowest  grade,  he  neither  thought 
nor  cared  about  it,  but  made  his  way  along,  with 
perfect  indifference. 

There  were  many  little  knots  and  groups  of  per¬ 
sons  in  Westminster  Hall :  some  few  looking  upward 
at  its  noble  ceiling,  and  at  the  rays  of  evening  light, 
tinted  by  the  setting  sun,  which  streamed  in  aslant 
through  its  small  windows,  and  growing  dimmer  by 
degrees,  were  quenched  in  the  gathering  gloom  be¬ 
low;  some,  noisy  passengers,  mechanics  going  home 
from  work,  and  otherwise,  who  hurried  quickly 
through,  waking  the  echoes  with  their  voices,  and 
soon  darkening  the  small  door  in  the  distance,  as 
they  passed  into  the  street  beyond ;  some,  in  busy 
conference  together  on  political  or  private  matters, 
pacing  slowly  up  and  down  with  eyes  that  sought 
the  ground,  and  seeming,  by  their  attitudes,  to  listen 
earnestly  from  head  to  foot.  Here,  a  dozen  squab¬ 
bling  urchins  made  a  very  Babel  in  the  air ;  there, 
a  solitary  man,  half  clerk,  half  mendicant,  paced  up 
and  down  with  hungry  dejection  in  his  look  and 
gait;  at  his  elbow  passed  an  errand -lad,  swinging 
his  basket  round  and  round,  and  with  his  shrill 
whistle  riving  the  very  timbers  of  the.  roof ;  while  a 
more  observant  school-boy,  half-way  through,  pock¬ 
eted  his  ball,  and  eyed  the  distant  beadle  as  he  came 
looming  on.  It  was  that  time  of  evening  when,  if 
you  shut  your  eyes  and  open  them  again,  the  dark¬ 
ness  of  an  hour  appears  to  have  gathered  in  a  sec¬ 
ond.  The  smooth-worn  pavement,  dusty  with  foot¬ 
steps,  still  called  upon  the  lofty  walls  to  reiterate 
the  shuffle  and  the  tread  of  feet  unceasingly,  save 
when  the  closing  of  some  heavy  door  resounded 
through  the  building  like  a  clap  of  thunder,  and 
drowned  all  other  noises  in  its  rolling  sound. 

Mr.  Haredale,  glancing  only  at  such  of  these 
groups  as  he  passed  nearest  to,  and  then  in  a  man¬ 


ner  betokening  that  his  thoughts  were  elsewhere, 
had  nearly  traversed  the  Hall,  when  two  persons  be¬ 
fore  him  caught  his  attention.  One  of  these,  a  gen¬ 
tleman  in  elegant  attire,  carried  in  his  hand  a  cane, 
which  he  twirled  in  a  jaunty  manner  as  he  loiter¬ 
ed  on  ;  the  other,  an  obsequious,  crouching,  fawning 
figure,  listened  to  what  he  said — at  times  throwing 
in  a  humble  word  himself — and,  with  his  shoulders 
shrugged  up  to  his  ears,  rubbed  his  hands  submis¬ 
sively,  or  answered  at  intervals  by  an  inclination 
of  the  head,  half-way  between  a  nod  of  acquiescence, 
and  a  bow  of  most  profound  respect. 

In  the  abstract  there  was  nothing  very  remarka¬ 
ble  in  this  pair,  for  servility  waiting  on  a  handsome 
suit  of  clothes  and  a  cane — not  to  speak  of  gold  and 
silver  sticks,  or  wands  of  office — is  common  enough. 
But  there  was  that  about  the  well-dressed  man,  yes, 
and  about  the  other  likewise,  which  struck  Mr.  Hare- 
dale  with  no  pleasant  feeling.  He  hesitated,  stop^ 
ped,  and  would  have  stepped  aside  and  turned  out 
of  his  path,  but  at  the  moment,  the  other  two  faced 
about  quickly,  and  stumbled  upon  him  before  he 
could  avoid  them. 

The  gentleman  with  the  cane  lifted  his  hat  and 
had  begun  to  tender  an  apology,  which  Mr.  Hare- 
dale  had  begun  as  hastily  to  acknowledge  and  walk 
away,  when  he  stopped  short  and  cried,  “  Haredale  ! 
Gad  bless  me,  this  is  strange  indeed !” 

“  It  is,”  he  returned,  impatiently ;  “  yes — a — ” 

“My  dear  friend,”  cried  the  other,  detaining  him, 
“  why  such  great  speed  ?  One  minute,  Haredale,  for 
the  sake  of  old  acquaintance.” 

“I  am  in  haste,”  he  said.  “Neither  of  us  has 
sought  this  meeting.  Let  it  be  a  brief  one.  Good¬ 
night  !” 

“Fie,  fie!”  replied  Sir  John  (for  it  was  he),  “how 
very  churlish !  We  were  speaking  of  you.  Your 
name  was  on  my  lips — perhaps  you  heard  me  men¬ 
tion  it?  No?  I  am  sorry  for  that.  I  am  really 
sorry. — You  know  our  friend  here,  Haredale  ?  This 
is  really  a  most  remarkable  meeting !” 

The  friend,  plainly  very  ill  at  ease,  had  made  bold 
to  press  Sir  John’s  arm,  and  to  give  him  other  sig¬ 
nificant  hints  that  he  was  desirous  of  avoiding  this 
introduction.  As  it  did  not  suit  Sir  John’s  purpose, 
however,  that  it  should  be  evaded,  he  appeared  quite 
unconscious  of  these  silent  remonstrances,  and  in¬ 
clined  his  hand  toward  him,  as  he  spoke,  to  call  at¬ 
tention  to  him  more  particularly. 

The  friend,  therefore,  had  nothing  for  it,  but  to 
muster  up  the  pleasantest  smile  he  could,  and  to 
make  a  conciliatory  bow,  as  Mr.  Haredale  turned  his 
eyes  upon  him.  Seeing  that  he  was  recognized,  he 
put  out  his  hand  in  an  awkward  and  embarrassed 
manner,  which  was  not  mended  by  its  contemptuous 
rejection. 

“  Mr.  Gashford !”  said  Haredale,  coldly.  “  It  is  as 
I  have  heard,  then.  You  have  left  the  darkness  for 
the  light,  sir,  and  hate  those  whose  opinions  you 
formerly  held,  with  all  the  bitterness  of  a  renegade. 
You  are  an  honor,  sir,  to  any  cause.  I  wish  the  one 
you  espouse  at  present,  much  joy  of  the  acquisition 
it  has  made.” 

The  secretary  rubbed  his  hands  and  bowed,  as 
though  he  would  disarm  his  adversary  by  humbling 
himself  before  him.  Sir  John  Chester  again  ex- 


FREEDOM  A  MONO  FRIENDS. 


141 


claimed,  with  an  air  of  great  gayety,  “  Now,  real¬ 
ly,  this  is  a  most  remarkable  meeting  !”  and  took  a 
piuclvof  snuff  with  his  usual  self-possession. 

“  Mr.  Haredale,”  said  Gashford,  stealthily  raising 
his  eyes,  and  letting  them  drop  again  when  they 
met  the  other’s  steady  gaze,  “  is  too  conscientious, 
too  honorable,  too  manly,  I  am  sure,  to  attach  un¬ 
worthy  motives  to  an  honest  change  of  opinions, 
even  though  it  implies  a  doubt  of  those  he  holds 
himself.  Mr.  Haredale  is  too  just,  too  generous,  too 
clear-sighted  in  his  moral  vision,  to — ” 

“Yes,  sir!”  he  rejoined  with  a  sarcastic  smile,  find¬ 
ing  the  secretary  stopped.  “You  were  saying — ” 

Gashford  meekly  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  look¬ 
ing  on  the  ground  again,  was  silent. 

“No,  but  let  us  really,”  interposed  Sir  John  at 
this  juncture,  “let  us  really,  for  a  moment,  contem¬ 
plate  the  very  remarkable  character  of  this  meeting. 
Haredale,  my  dear  friend,  pardon  me  if  I  think  you 
are  not  sufficiently  impressed  with  its  singularity. 
Here  we  stand,  by  no  previous  appointment  or  ar¬ 
rangement,  three  old  school-fellows,  in  Westminster 
Hall;  three  old  boarders  in  a  remarkably  dull  and 
shady  seminary  at  Saint  Omer’s,  where  you,  being 
Catholics  and  of  necessity  educated  out  of  England, 
were  brought  up ;  and  w^here  I,  being  a  promising 
young  Protestant  at  that  time,  was  sent  to  learn  the 
French  tongue  from  a  native  of  Paris !” 

“Add  to  the  singularity,  Sir  John,”  said  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  “  that  some  of  yon  Protestants  of  promise  are 
at  this  moment  leagued  in  yonder  building,  to  pre¬ 
vent  our  having  the  surpassing  and  unheard-of  priv¬ 
ilege  of  teaching  our  children  to  read  and  write — 
here — in  this  land,  where  thousands  of  us  enter  your 
service  every  year,  and  to  preserve  the  freedom  of 
which,  we  die  in  bloody  battles  abroad,  in  heaps ; 
and  that  others  of  you,  to  the  number  of  some  thou¬ 
sands  as  I  learn,  are  led  on  to  look  on  all  men  of 
my  creed  as  wolves  and  beasts  of  prey,  by  this  man 
Gashford.  Add  to  it  besides,  the  bare  fact  that  this 
man  lives  in  society,  walks  the  streets  in  broad  day 
— I  was  about  to  say,  holds  up  his  head,  but  that  he 
does  not — and  it  will  be  strange,  and  very  strange, 
I  grant  you.” 

“  Oh !  you  are  hard  upon  our  friend,”  replied  Sir 
John,  with  an  engaging  smile.  “You  are  really 
very  hard  upon  our  friend !” 

“Let  him  go  on,  Sir  John,”  said  Gashford,  fum¬ 
bling  with  his  gloves.  “Let  him  go  on.  I  can 
make  allowances,  Sir  John.  I  qin  honored  with 
your  good  opinion,  and  I  can  dispense  with  Mr. 
Haredale’s.  Mr.  Haredale  is  a  sufferer  from  the 
penal  laws,  and  I  cau’t  expect  his  favor.” 

“  You  have  so  much  of  my  favor,  sir,”  retorted  Mr. 
Haredale,  with  a  bitter  glance  at  the  third  party  in 
their  conversation,  “that  I  am  glad  to  see  you  in 
such  good  company.  You  are  the  essence  of  your 
great  Association,  in  yourselves.” 

“  Now,  there  you  mistake,”  said  Sir  John,  in  his 
most  benignant  way.  “  There — which  is  a  most  re¬ 
markable  circumstance  for  a  man  of  your  punctuali¬ 
ty  and  exactness,  Haredale — you  fall  into  error.  I 
don’t  belong  to  the  body ;  I  have  an  immense  respect 
for  its  members,  but  I  don’t  belong  to  it ;  although 
I  am,  it  is  certainly  true,  the  conscientious  opponent 
of  your  being  relieved.  I  feel  it  my  duty  to  be  so; 


it  is  a  most  unfortunate  necessity;  and  cost  me  a 
bitter  struggle. — Will  you  try  this  box?  If  you 
don’t  object  to  a  trifling  infusion  of  a  very  chaste 
scent,  you’ll  find  its  flavor  exquisite.” 

“  I  ask  your  pardon,  Sir  John,”  said  Mr.  Haredale, 
declining  the  proffer  with  a  motion  of  his  hand,  “  for 
having  ranked  you  among  the  humble  instruments 
who  are  obvious  and  in  all  men’s  sight.  I  should 
have  done  more  justice  to  your  genius.  Men  of  your 
capacity  plot  in  secrecy  and  safety,  and  leave  ex¬ 
posed  posts  to  the  duller  wits.” 

“  Don’t  apologize,  for  the  world,”  replied  Sir  John, 
sweetly  ;  “  old  friends  like  you  and  I  may  be  allow¬ 
ed  some  freedoms,  or  the  deuce  is  in  it.” 

Gashford,  who  had  been  very  restless  all  this  time, 
but  had  not  once  looked  up,  now  turned  to  Sir  John, 
and  ventured  to  mutter  something  to  the  effect  that 
he  must  go,  or  my  lord  would  perhaps  be  waiting. 

“  Don’t  distress  yourself,  good  sir,”  said  Mr.  Hare¬ 
dale,  “I’ll  take  my  leave,  and  put  you  at  your 
ease — ”  which  he  was  about  to  do  without  cere¬ 
mony,  when  he  was  stayed  by  a  buzz  and  murmur 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  hall,  and,  looking  in  that  di¬ 
rection,  sawr  Lord  George  Gordon  coming  in,  with  a 
crowd  of  people  round  him. 

There  was  a  lurking  look  of  triumph,  though  very 
differently  expressed,  in  the  faces  of  his  two  com¬ 
panions,  which  made  it  a  natural  impulse  on  Mr. 
Haredale’s  part  not  to  give  way  before  this  leader, 
but  to  stand  there  while  he  passed.  He  drew  him¬ 
self  up  and,  clasping  his  hands  behind  him,  looked 
on  with  a  proud  and  scornful  aspect,  while  Lord 
George  slowly  advanced  (for  the  press  was  great 
about  him)  toward  the  spot  where  they  wrere  stand¬ 
ing. 

He  had  left  the  House  of  Commons  but  that  mo¬ 
ment,  and  had  come  straight  down  into  the  Hall, 
bringing  with  him,  as  his  custom  was,  intelligence 
of  what  had  been  said  that  night  in  reference  to  the 
Papists,  and  what  petitions  had  been  presented  in 
their  favor,  and  who  had  supported  them,  and  when 
the  bill  was  to  be  brought  in,  and  when  it  would  be 
advisable  to  present  their  own  Great  Protestant  pe¬ 
tition.  All  this  he  told  the  persons  about  him  in  a 
loud  voice,  and  with  great  abundance  of  ungainly 
gesture.  Those  who  were  nearest  him  made  com¬ 
ments  to  each  other,  and  vented  threats  and  mur- 
murings;  those  who  were  outside  the  crowd  cried, 
“Silence,”  and  “Stand  back,”  or  closed  in  upon  the 
rest,  endeavoring  to  make  a  forcible  exchange  of 
places :  and  so  they  came  driving  on  in  a  very  dis¬ 
orderly  and  irregular  way,  as  it  is  the  manner  of  a 
crowd  to  do. 

When  they  were  very  near  to  where  the  secretary, 
Sir  John,  and  Mr.  Haredale  stood,  Lord  George  turn¬ 
ed  round,  and,  making  a  few  remarks  of  a  sufficient¬ 
ly  violent  and  incoherent  kind,  concluded  with  the 
usual  sentiment,  and  called  for  three  cheers  to  back 
it.  While  these  were  in  the  act  of  being  given  with 
great  energy,  he  extricated  himself  from  tfie  press, 
and  stepped  up  to  Gashford’s  side.  Both  he  and  Sir 
John  being  well  known  to  the  populace,  they  fell 
back  a  little,  and  left  the  four  standing  together. 

“Mr.  Haredale,  Lord  George,”  said  Sir  John  Ches¬ 
ter,  seeing  that  the  nobleman  regarded  him  with  an 
inquisitive  look.  “A  Catholic  gentleman  unfortu- 


142 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


nately — most  unhappily  a  Catholic — hut  au  esteem¬ 
ed  acquaintance  of  mine,  and  once  of  Mr.  Gasliford’s. 
My  dear  Haredale,  this  is  Lord  George  Gordon.” 

“I  should  have  known  that,  had  I  been  ignorant 
of  his  lordship’s  person,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “I 
hope  there  is  hut  one  gentleman  in  England  who, 
addressing  an  ignorant  and  excited  throng,  would 
speak  of  a  large  body  of  his  fellow-subjects  in  such 
injurious  language  as  I  heard  this  moment.  For 
shame,  my  lord,  for  shame!” 

“  I  can  not  talk  to  you,  sir,”  replied  Lord  George 
in  a  loud  voice,  and  waving  his  hand  in  a  disturbed 
and  agitated  manner;  “  we  have  nothing  in  common.” 


As  he  said  this,  he  glanced  at  Sir  John,  who  lifted 
his  hands  and  eyebrows,  as  if  deploring  the  intem¬ 
perate  conduct  of  Mr.  Haredale,  and  smiled  in  ad¬ 
miration  of  the  crowd  and  of  their  leader. 

11  He  retort!”  cried  Haredale.  “Look  you  here, 
my  lord.  Do  you  know  this  man  ?” 

Lord  George  replied  by  laying  his  hand  upon  the 
shoulder  of  his  cringing  secretary,  and  viewing  him 
with  a  smile  of  confidence. 

“This  man,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  eying  him  from 
top  to  toe,  “who  in  his  boyhood  was  a  thief,  and 
has  been  from  that  time  to  this,  a  servile,  false,  and 
truckling  knave :  this  man,  who  has  crawled  and 


“We  have  much  in  common — many  things — all 
that  the  Almighty  gave  us,”  said  Mr.  Haredale ; 
“  and  common  charity,  not  to  say  common  sense  and 
common  decency,  should  teach  you  to  refrain  from 
these  proceedings.  If  every  one  of  those  men  had 
arms  in  their  hands  at  this  moment,  as  they  have 
them  in  their  heads,  I  would  not  leave  this  place 
without  telling  you  that  you  disgrace  your  station.” 

“I  don’t  hear  you,  sir,”  he  replied  in  the  same 
manner  as  before ;  “  I  can’t  hear  you.  It  is  indiffer¬ 
ent  to  me  what  you  say.  Don’t  retort,  Gashford,” 
for  the  secretary  had  made  a  show  of  wishing  to  do 
so;  “I  can  hold  no  communion  with  the  worshipers 
of  idols.” 


crept  through  life,  wounding  the  hands  he  licked, 
and  biting  those  he  fawned  upon :  this  sycophant, 
who  never  knew  what  honor,  truth,  or  courage 
meant ;  who  robbed  his  benefactor’s  daughter  of  her 
virtue,  and  married  her  to  break  her  heart,  and  did 
it,  with  stripes  and  cruelty :  this  creature,  who  has 
whined  at  kitchen  windows  for  the  broken  food,  and 
begged  for  half-pence  at  our  chapel  doors :  this  apos¬ 
tle  of  the  faith,  whose  tender  conscience  can  not 
bear  the  altars  where  his  vicious  life  was  publicly 
denounced — Do  you  know  this  man  ?” 

“Oh,  really — you  are  very,  very  hard  upon  our 
friend  !”  exclaimed  Sir  Jolm. 

“Let  Mr.  Haredale  go  on,”  said  Gashford,  upon 


A  STONE  FROM  AN  UNSEEN  HAND. 


143 


whose  unwholesome  face  the  perspiration  had  broken 
out  during  this  speech,  in  blotches  of  wet ;  “  I  don’t 
mind  him,  Sir  John;  it’s  quite  as  indifferent  to  me 
what  he  says,  as  it  is  to  my  lord.  If  he  reviles  my 
lord,  as  you  have  heard,  Sir  John,  how  can  I  hope  to 
escape  ?” 

“  Is  it  not  enough,  my  lord,”  Mr.  Haredale  con¬ 
tinued,  “  that  I,  as  good  a  gentleman  as  you,  must 
hold  my  property,  such  as  it  is,  by  a  trick  at  which 
the  state  connives  because  of  these  hard  laws ;  and 
that  we  may  not  teach  our  youth  in  schools  the  com¬ 
mon  principles  of  right  and  wrong;  but  must  we  be 
denounced  and  ridden  by  such  men  as  this !  Here 
is  a  man  to  head  your  No-Popery  cry !  For  shame. 
For  shame !” 

The  infatuated  nobleman  had  glanced  more  than 
once  at  Sir  John  Chester,  as  if  to  inquire  whether 
there  was  any  truth  in  these  statements  concerning 
Gashford,  and  Sir  John  had  as  often  plainly  answer¬ 
ed  by  a  shrug  or  look, “  Oh  dear  me  !  no.”  He  now 
said,  in  the  same  loud  key,  and  in  the  same  strange 
manner  as  before : 

“  I  have  nothing  to  say,  sir,  in  reply,  and  no  desire 
to  hear  any  thing  more.  I  beg  you  won’t  obtrude 
your  conversation,  or  these  personal  attacks,  upon 
me.  I  shall  not  be  deterred  from  doing  my  duty  to 
my  country  and  my  countrymen,  by  any  such  at¬ 
tempts,  whether  they  proceed  from  emissaries  of  the 
Pope  or  not,  I  assure  you.  Come,  Gashford !” 

They  had  walked  on  a  few  paces  while  speaking, 
and  were  now  at  the  Hall  door,  through  which  they 
passed  together.  Mr.  Haredale,  without  any  leave- 
taking,  turned  away  to  the  river  stairs,  which  were 
close  at  hand,  and  hailed  the  only  boatman  who  re¬ 
mained  there. 

But  the  throng  of  people — the  foremost  of  whom 
had  heard  every  word  that  Lord  George  Gordon  said, 
and  among  all  of  whom  the  rumor  had  been  rapidly 
dispersed  that  the  stranger  was  a  Papist  who  was 
bearding  him  for  his  advocacy  of  the  popular  cause 
— came  pouring  out  pell-mell,  and,  forcing  the  no¬ 
bleman,  his  secretary,  and  Sir  John  Chester  on  be¬ 
fore  them,  so  that  they  appeared  to  be  at  their  head, 
crowded  to  the  top  of  the  stairs  where  Mr.  Haredale 
waited  until  the  boat  was  ready,  and  there  stood 
still,  leaving  him  on  a  little  clear  space  by  himself. 

They  were  not  silent,  however,  though  inactive. 
At  first  some  indistinct  mutterings  arose  among 
them,  which  were  followed  by  a  hiss  or  two,  and 
these  swelled  by  degrees  into  a  perfect  storm.  Then 
one  voice  said, “  Down  with  the  Papists !”  and  there 
was  a  pretty  general  cheer,  but  nothing  more.  After 
a  lull  of  a  few  moments,  one  man  cried  out,  “  Stone 
him ;”  another,  “  Duck  him  ;”  another,  in  a  stentorian 
voice,  “  No  Popery !”  This  favorite  cry  the  rest  re¬ 
echoed,  and  the  mob,  which  might  have  been  two 
hundred  strong,  joined  in  a  general  shout. 

Mr.  Haredale  had  stood  calmly  on  the  brink  of 
the  steps,  until  they  made  this  demonstration,  when 
he  looked  round  contemptuously,  and  walked  at  a 
slow  pace  down  the  stairs.  He  was  pretty  near  the 
boat,  when  Gashford,  as  if  without  intention,  turned 
about,  and  directly  after  a  great  stone  was  thrown 
by  some  hand,  in  the  crowd,  which  struck  him  on 
the  head,  and  made  him  stagger  like  a  drunken 
man. 


The  blood  sprang  freely  from  the  wound,  and 
trickled  down  his  coat.  He  turned  directly,  and 
rushing  up  the  steps  with  a  boldness  and  passion 
which  made  them  all  fall  back,  demanded : 

“  Who  did  that  ?  Show  me  the  man  who  hit  me.” 

Not  a  soul  moved ;  except  some  in  the  rear  who 
slunk  off,  and,  escaping  to  the  other  side  of  the  way, 
looked  on  like  indifferent  spectators. 

“  Who  did  that  ?”  he  repeated.  “  Show  me  the 
man  who  did  it.  Dog,  was  it  you?  It  was  your 
deed,  if  not  your  hand — I  know  you.” 

He  threw  himself  on  Gashford  as  he  said  the 
words,  and  hurled  him  to  the  ground.  There  was  a 
sudden  motion  in  the  crowd,  and  some  laid  hands 
upon  him,  but  his  sword  was  out,  and  they  fell  off 
again. 

“My  lord — Sir  John” — he  cried,  “draw,  one  of 
you— you  are  responsible  for  this  outrage,  and  I  look 
to  you.  Draw,  if  you  are  gentlemen.”  With  that 
he  struck  Sir  John  upon  the  breast  with  the  flat  of 
his  weapon,  and  with  a  burning  face  and  flashing 
eyes  stood  upon  his  guard;  alone,  before  them  all. 

For  an  instant,  for  the  briefest  space  of  time  the 
mind  can  readily  conceive,  there  was  a  change  in 
Sir  John’s  smooth  face,  such  as  no  man  ever  saw 
there.  The  next  moment,  he  stepped  forward,  and 
laid  one  hand  on  Mr.  Haredale’s  arm,  while  with  the 
other  he  endeavored  to  appease  the  crowd. 

“  My  dear  friend,  my  good  Haredale,  you  are  blind¬ 
ed  with  passion — it’s  very  natural,  extremely  natu¬ 
ral — but  you  don’t  know  friends  from  foes.” 

“  I  know  them  all,  sir,  I  can  distinguish  well—” 
he  retorted,  almost  mad  with  rage.  “  Sir  John,  Lord 
George — do  you  hear  me  ?  Are  you  cowards  ?” 

“  Never  mind,  sir,”  said  a  man,  forcing  his  way 
between  and  pushing  him  toward  the  stairs  with 
friendly  violence,  “never  mind  asking  that.  For 
God’s  sake,  get  away.  What  can  you  do  against 
this  number  ?  And  there  are  as  many  more  in  the 
next  street,  who’ll  be  round  directly” — indeed  they 
began  to  pour  in  as  he  said  the  words — “  you’d  be 
giddy  from  that  cut,  in  the  first  heat  of  a  scuffle. 
Now  do  retire,  sir,  or  take  my  word  for  it  you’ll  be 
worse  used  than  you  would  be  if  every  man  in  the 
crowd  was  a  woman,  and  that  woman  Bloody  Mary. 
Come,  sir,  make  haste — as  quick  as  you  can.” 

Mr.  Haredale,  who  began  to  turn  faint  and  sick, 
felt  how  sensible  this  advice  was,  and  descended  the 
steps  with  his  unknown  friend’s  assistance.  John 
Grueby  (for  John  it  was)  helped  him  into  the  boat, 
and  giving  her  a  shove  off,  which  sent  her  thirty 
feet  into  the  tide,  bade  the  waterman  pull  away  like 
a  Briton ;  and  walked  up  again  as  composedly  as  if 
he  had  just  landed. 

There  was  at  first  a  slight  disposition  on  the  part 
of  the  mob  to  resent  this  interference;  but  John 
looking  particularly  strong  and  cool,  and  wearing 
besides  Lord  George’s  livery,  they  thought  better  of 
it,  and  contented  themselves  with  sending  a  shower 
of  small  missiles  after  the  boat,  which  plashed  harm¬ 
lessly  in  the  water ;  for  she  had  by  this  time  cleared 
the  bridge,  and  was  darting  swiftly  down  the  centre 
of  the  stream. 

From  this  amusement,  they  proceeded  to  giving 
Protestant  knocks  at  the  doors  of  private  houses, 
breaking  a  few  lamps,  and  assaultiug  some  stray 


144 


BAR  NAB  Y  BUDGE. 


constables.  But,  it  being  whispered  that  a  detach¬ 
ment  of  Life  Guards  had  been  sent  for,  they  took  to 
their  heels  with  great  expedition,  and  left  the  street 
quite  clear. 

♦ 

CHAPTER  XLIV. 

WHEN  the  concourse  separated,  and,  dividing 
into  chance  clusters,  drew  off  in  various  di¬ 
rections,  there  still  remained  upon  the  scene  of  the 
late  disturbance,  one  man.  This  man  was  Gashford, 
who,  bruised  by  his  late  fall,  and  hurt  in  a  much 
greater  degree  by  the  indignity  he  had  undergone, 
and  the  exposure  of  which  he  had  been  the  victim, 
limped  up  and  down,  breathing  curses  and  threats 
of  vengeance. 

It  was  not  the  secretary’s  nature  to  waste  his 
wrath  in  words.  While  he  vented  the  froth  of  his 
lhalevolence  in  those  effusions,  he  kept  a  steady  eye 
on  two  men,  who,  having  disappeared  with  the  rest 
when  the  alarm  was  spread,  had  since  returned,  and 
were  now  visible  in  the  moonlight,  at  no  great  dis¬ 
tance,  as  they  walked  to  and  fro,  and  talked  to¬ 
gether.  / 

He  made  no  move  toward  them,  but  waited  pa¬ 
tiently  on  the  dark  side  of  the  street,  until  they  were 
tired  of  strolling  backward  and  forward  and  walked 
away  in  company.  Then  he  followed,  but  at  some 
distance :  keeping  them  in  view,  without  appearing 
to  have  that  object,  or  being  seen  by  them. 

They  went  up  Parliament  Street,  past  Saint  Mar¬ 
tin’s  church,  and  away  by  Saint  Giles’s  to  Tottenham 
Court  Road,  at  the  back  of  which,  upon  the  western 
side,  was  then  a  place  called  the  Green  Lanes.  This 
was  a  retired  spot,  not  of  the  choicest  kind,  lead¬ 
ing  into  the  fields.  Great  heaps  of  ashes  ;  stagnant 
X>ools,  overgrown  with  rank  grass  and  duck- weed ; 
broken  turnstiles ;  and  the  upright  posts  of  palings 
long  since  carried  off  for  fire-wood,  which  menaced 
all  heedless  walkers  with  their  jagged  and  rusty 
nails ;  were  the  leading  features  of  the  landscape ; 
while  here  and  there  a  donkey,  or  a  ragged  horse, 
tethered  to  a  stake,  and  cropping  off  a  wretched  meal 
from  the  coarse  stunted  turf,  were  quite  in  keeping 
with  the  scene,  and  would  have  suggested  (if  the 
houses  had  not  done  so,  sufficiently,  of  themselves) 
how  very  poor  the  people  were  who  lived  in  the 
crazy  huts  adjacent,  and  how  fool-hardy  it  might 
prove  for  one  who  carried  money,  or  wore  decent 
clothes,  to  walk  that  way  alone,  unless  by  daylight. 

Poverty  has  its  whims  and  shows  of  taste,  as 
wealth  has.  Some  of  these  cabins  were  turreted, 
some  had  false  windows  painted  on  their  rotten 
walls ;  one  had  a  mimic  clock,  upon  a  crazy  tower 
of  four  feet  high,  which  screened  the  chimney ;  each 
in  its  little  patch  of  ground  had  a.  rude  seat  or  ar¬ 
bor.  The  population  dealt  in  bones,  in  rags,  in  bro¬ 
ken  glass,  in  old  wheels,  in  birds,  and  dogs.  These, 
in  their  several  ways  of  stowage,  filled  the  gardens  ; 
and  shedding  a  perfume,  not  of  the  most  delicious 
nature,  in  the  air,  filled  it  besides  with  yelps,  and 
screams,  and  howling. 

Into  this  retreat,  the  secretary  followed  the  two 
men  whom  he  had  held  in  sight ;  and  here  he  saw 
them  safely  lodged,  in  one  of  the  meanest  houses, 


which  was  but  a  room,  and  that  of  small  dimensions. 
He  waited  without,  until  the  sound  of  their  voices, 
joined  in  a  discordant  song,  assured  him  they  were 
making  merry;  and  then  approaching  the  door,  by 
means  of  a  tottering  plank  which  crossed  the  ditch 
in  front,  knocked  at  it  with  his  hand. 

“  Muster  Gashford !”  said  the  man  who  opened  it, 
taking  his  pipe  from  his  mouth,  in  evident  surprise. 
“  Why,  who’d  have  thought  of  this  here  honor !  Walk 
in,  Muster  Gashford — walk  in,  sir.” 

Gashford  required  no  second  invitation,  and  enter¬ 
ed  with  a  gracious  air.  There  was  a  fire  in  the  rusty 
grate  (for  though  the  spring  was  pretty  far  advanced, 
the  nights  were  cold),  and  on  a  stool  beside  it  Hugh 
sat  smoking.  Dennis  placed  a  chair,  his  only  one, 
for  the  secretary,  in  front  of  the  hearth  ;  and  took  his 
seat  again  upon  the  stool  he  had  left  when  he  rose  to 
give  the  visitor  admission. 

“  What’s  in  the  wind  now,  Muster  Gashford  ?”  he 
said,  as  he  resumed  his  pipe,  and  looked  at  him 
askew.  “Any  orders  from  head-quarters?  Are  we 
going  to  begin  ?  What  is  it,  Muster  Gashford  ?” 

“  Oh,  nothing,  nothing,”  rejoined  the  secretary, 
with  a  friendly  nod  to  Hugh.  “  We  have  broken 
the  ice,  though.  We  had  a  little  spurt  to-day — eh, 
Dennis  ?” 

“A  very  little  one,”  growled  the  hangman.  “  Not 
half  enough  for  me.” 

“Nor  me  neither!”  cried  Hugh.  “Give  us  some¬ 
thing  to  do  with  life  in  it — with  life  in  it,  master. 
Ha,  ha!” 

“  Why,  you  wouldn’t,”  said  the  secretary,  with  his 
worst  expression  of  face,  and  in  his  mildest  tones, 
“  have  any  thing  to  do,  with — with  death  in  it  ?” 

“  I  don’t  know  that,”  replied  Hugh.  “  I’m  open 
to  orders.  I  don’t  care  ;  not  I.” 

“  Nor  I !”  vociferated  Dennis. 

“  Brave  fellows !”  said  the  secretary,  in  as  pastor- 
like  a  voice  as  if  he  were  commending  them  for  some 
uncommon  act  of  valor  and  generosity.  “  By-the- 
bye” — and  here  he  stopped  and  warmed  his  bauds; 
then  suddenly  looked  up — “who  threw  that  stone 
to-day  ?” 

Mr.  Dennis  coughed  and  shook  his  head,  as  who 
should  say,  “A  mystery  indeed!”  Hugh  sat  and 
smoked  in  silence. 

“It  w’as  well  done!”  said  the  secretary,  warming 
his  hands  again.  “  I  should  like  to  know  that  man.” 

“Would  you?”  said  Dennis,  after  looking  at  his 
face  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  serious.  “  Would 
you  like  to  know  that  man,  Muster  Gashford?” 

“  I  should  indeed,”  replied  the  secretary. 

“Why  then,  Lord  love  you,”  said  the  hangman,  in 
his  hoarsest  chuckle,  as  he  pointed  with  his  pipe  to 
Hugh,  “there  he  sits.  That’s  the  man.  My  stars 
and  halters,  Muster  Gashford,”  he  added  in  a  whis¬ 
per,  as  he  drew  his  stool  close  to  him  and  jogged 
him  with  his  elbow,  “what  a  interesting  blade  he 
is !  He  wants  as  much  holding  in  as  a  thorough-bred 
bull-dog.  If  it  hadn’t  been  for  me  to-day,  he’d  have 
had  that  ’ere  Roman  down,  and  made  a  riot  of  it,  in 
another  minute.” 

“And  why  not?”  cried  Hugh  in  a  surly  voice,  as 
he  overheard  this  last  remark.  “Where’s  the  good 
of  putting  things  off?  Strike  while  the  iron’s  hot; 
that’s  what  I  say.” 


MUSTER  GASHFORD’ S  HEALTH. 


145 


“Ah!”  retorted  Dermis,  shaking  his  head,  with  a 
kind  of  pity  for  his  friend’s  ingenuous  youth ;  “  but 
suppose  the  iron  an’t  hot,  brother!  You  must  get 
people’s  blood  up  afore  you  strike,  and  have  ’em  in 
the  humor.  There  wasn’t  quite  enough  to  provoke 
’em  to-day,  I  tell  you.  If  you’d  had  your  way,  you’d 
have  spoiled  the  fun  to  come,  and  ruined  us.” 

“  Dennis  is  quite  right,”  said  Gashford,  smoothly. 
“  He  is  perfectly  correct.  Dennis  has  great  knowl¬ 
edge  of  the  world.” 

“  I  ought  to  have,  Muster  Gashford,  seeing  what  a 
many  people  I’ve  helped  out  of  it,  eh  ?”  grinned  the 
hangman,  whispering  the  words  behind  his  hand. 

The  secretary  laughed  at  this,  just  as  much  as 
Dennis  could  desire,  and  when  he  had  done,  said, 
turning  to  Hugh : 

“  Dennis’s  policy  was  mine,  as  you  may  have  ob¬ 
served.  You  saw,  for  instance,  how  I  fell  when  I 
was  set  upon.  I  made  no  resistance.  I  did  nothing 
to  provoke  an  outbreak.  Oh  dear  no  !” 

“No,  by  the  Lord  Harry!”  cried  Dennis,  with  a 
noisy  laugh,  “  you  went  down  very  quiet,  Muster 
Gashford — and  very  flat  besides.  I  thinks  to  my¬ 
self  at  the  time  ‘  it’s  all  up  with  Muster  Gashford !’ 
I  never  see  a  man  lay  flatter  nor  more  still — with  the 
life  in  him — than  you  did  to-day.  He’s  a  rough  ’un 
to  play  with,  is  that  ’ere  Papist,  and  that’s  the  fact.” 

The  secretary’s  face,  as  Dennis  roared  with  laugh¬ 
ter,  and  turned  his  wrinkled  eyes  on  Hugh  who  did 
the  like,  might  have  furnished  a  study  for  the  devil’s 
picture.  He  sat  quite  silent  until  they  were  serious 
again,  and  then  said,  looking  round : 

“We  are  very  pleasant  here;  so  very  pleasant, 
Dennis,  that  but  for  my  lord’s  particular  desire  that 
I  should  sup  with  him,  and  the  time  being  very  near 
at  hand,  I  should  be  inclined  to  stay,  until  it  would 
be  hardly  safe  to  go  homeward.  I  come  upon  a  lit¬ 
tle  business — yes,  I  do — as  you  supposed.  It’s  very 
flattering  to  you ;  being  this.  If  we  ever  should  be 
obliged — and  we  can’t  tell,  you  know — this  is  a  very 
uncertain  world — ” 

“  I  believe  you,  Muster  Gashford,”  interposed  the 
hangman,  with  a  grave  nod.  “  The  uncertainties  as 
I’ve  seen  in  reference  to  this  here  state  of  existence, 
the  unexpected  contingencies  as  have  come  about ! 
Oh  my  eye !”  Feeling  the  subject  much  too  vast  for 
expression,  he  puffed  at  his  pipe  again,  and  looked 
the  rest. 

“I  say,” resumed  the  secretary,  in  a  slow,  impress¬ 
ive  way ;  “  we  can’t  tell  what  may  come  to  pass ; 
and  if  we  should  be  obliged,  against  our  wills,  to 
have  recourse  to  violence,  my  lord  (who  has  suffered 
terribly  to-day,  as  far  as  words  can  go)  consigns  to 
you  two — bearing  in  mind  my  recommendation  of 
you  both,  as  good  staunch  men,  beyond  all  doubt 
and  suspicion — the  pleasant  task  of  punishing  this 
Hare  dale.  You  may  do  as  you  please  with  him,  or 
his,  provided  that  you  show  no  mercy,  and  no  quar¬ 
ter,  and  leave  no  two  beams  of  his  house  standing 
where  the  builder  placed  them.  You  may  sack  it, 
burn  it,  do  with  it  as  you  like,  but  it  must  come 
down  ;  it  must  be  razed  to  the  ground ;  and  he,  and 
all  belonging  to  him,  left  as  shelterless  as  new-born 
infants  whom  their  mothers  have  exposed.  Do  you 
understand  me  ?”  said  Gashford,  pausing,  and  press¬ 
ing  his  hands  together  gently. 

10 


“Understand  you,  master!”  cried  Hugh.  “You 
speak  plain  now.  Why,  this  is  hearty !” 

“  I  knew  you  would  like  it,”  said  Gashford,  shak¬ 
ing  him  by  the  hand ;  “  I  thought  you  would.  Good¬ 
night  !  Don’t  rise,  Dennis  ;  I  would  rather  find  my 
way  alone.  I  may  have  to  make  other  visits  here, 
and  it’s  pleasant  to  come  and  go  without  disturbing 
you.  I  can  find  my  way  perfectly  well.  Good¬ 
night  !” 

He  was  gone,  and  had  shut  the  door  behind  him. 
They  looked  at  each  other,  and  nodded  approvingly : 
Dennis  stirred  up  the  fire. 

“  This  looks  a  little  more  like  business !”  he  said. 

“Ay,  indeed !”  cried  Hugh ;  “  this  suits  me  !” 

“  I’ve  heerd  it  said  of  Muster  Gashford,”  said  the 
hangman,  “that  he’d  a  surprising  memory  and  won¬ 
derful  firmness— that  he  never  forgot,  and  never  for¬ 
gave. — Let’s  drink  his  health !” 

Hugh  readily  complied — pouring  no  liquor  on  the 
floor  when  he  drank  this  toast — and  they  pledged 
the  secretary  as  a  man  after  their  own  hearts,  in  a 
bumper. 

♦ 

CHAPTER  XLV. 

HILE  the  worst  passions  of  the  worst  men  were 
thus  working  in  the  dark,  and  the  mantle  of 
religion,  assumed  to  cover  the  ugliest  deformities, 
threatened  to  become  the  shroud  of  all  that  was 
good  and  peaceful  in  society,  a  circumstance  occur¬ 
red  which  once  more  altered  the  position  of  two  per¬ 
sons  from  whom  this  history  has  long  been  sepa¬ 
rated,  and  to  whom  it  must  now  return. 

In  a  small  English  country  town,  the  inhabitants 
of  which  supported  themselves  by  the  labor  of  their 
hands  in  plaiting  and  preparing  straw  for  those  who 
made  bonnets  and  other  articles  of  dress  and  orna¬ 
ment  from  that  material  —  concealed  under  an  as¬ 
sumed  name,  and  living  in  a  quiet  poverty  which 
knew  no  change,  no  pleasures,  and  few  cares  but  that 
of  struggling  on  from  day  to  day  in  one  great  toil 
for  bread — dwelt  Barnaby  and  his  mother.  Their 
poor  cottage  had  known  no  stranger’s  foot  since  they 
sought  the  shelter  of  its  roof  five  years  before  ;  nor 
had  they  in  all  that  time  held  any  commerce  or  com¬ 
munication  with  the  old  world  from  which  they  had 
fled.  To  labor  in  peace,  and  devote  her  labor  and 
her  life  to  her  poor  son,  was  all  the  widow  sought. 
If  happiness  can  be  said  at  any  time  to  be  the  lot  of 
one  on  whom  a  secret  sorrow  preys,  she  was  happy 
now.  Tranquillity,  resignation,  and  her  strong  love 
of  him  who  needed  it  so  much,  formed  the  small  cir¬ 
cle  of  her  quiet  joys ;  and  while  that  remained  un¬ 
broken,  she  was  contented. 

For  Barnaby  himself,  the  time  which  had  flown 
by,  had  passed  him  like  the  wind.  The  daily  suns 
of  years  had  shed  no  brighter  gleam  of  reason  on  his 
mind;  no  dawn  had  broken  on  his  long,  dark  night. 
He  would  sit  sometimes — often  for  days  together — 
on  a  low  seat  by  the  fire  or  by  the  cottage  door,  busy 
at  work  (for  he  had  learned  the  art  his  mother  plied), 
and  listening,  God  help  him,  to  the  tales  she  would 
repeat,  as  a  lure  to  keep  him  in  her  sight.  He  had 
no  recollection  of  these  little  narratives ;  the  tale  of 
yesterday  was  new  to  him  upon  the  morrow ;  but  he 


146 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


liked  them  at  the  moment ;  and  when  tlie  humor 
held  him,  would  remain  patiently  within  doors,  hear¬ 
ing  her  stories  like  a  little  child,  and  working  cheer¬ 
fully  from  sunrise  until  it  was  too  dark  to  see. 

At  other  times — and  then  their  scanty  earnings 
were  barely  sufficient  to  furnish  them  with  food, 
though  of  the  coarsest  sort  —  he  would  wander 
abroad  from  dawn  of  day  until  the  twilight  deepen¬ 
ed  into  night.  Few  in  that  place,  even  of  the  chil¬ 
dren,  could  he  idle,  and  he  had  no  companions  of  his 
own  kind.  Indeed  there  were  not  many  who  could 
have  kept  up  with  him  in  his  rambles,  had  there 
been  a  legion.  But  there  were  a  score  of  vagabond 
dogs  belonging  to  the  neighbors,  who  served  his  pur¬ 
pose  quite  as  well.  With  two  or  three  of  these,  or 
sometimes  with  a  full  half  -  dozen  harking  at  his 
heels,  he  would  sally  forth  on  some  long  expedition 
that  consumed  the  day ;  and  though,  on  their  return 
at  night-fall,  the  dogs  would  come  home  limping  and 
sorefooted,  and  almost  spent  with  their  fatigue,  Bar- 
nahy  was  up  and  off  again  at  sunrise  with  some  new 
attendants  of  the  same  class,  with  whom  he  would 
return  in  like  manner.  On  all  these  travels,  Grip, 
in  his  little  basket  at  his  master's  hack,  was  a  con¬ 
stant  member  of  the  party,  and  when  they  set  off  in 
fine  weather  and  in  high  spirits,  no  dog  harked  loud¬ 
er  than  the  raven. 

Their  pleasures  on  these  excursions  were  simple 
enough.  A  crust  of  bread  and  scrap  of  meat,  with 
water  from  the  brook  or  spring,  sufficed  for  their  re¬ 
past.  Barnaby’s  enjoyments  were,  to  walk,  and  run, 
and  leap,  till  he  was  tired ;  then  to  lie  down  in  the 
long  grass,  or  by  the  growing  corn,  or  in  the  shade 
of  some  tall  tree,  looking  upward  at  the  light  clouds 
as  they  floated  over  the  blue  surface  of  the  sky,  and 
listening  to  the  lark  as  she  poured  out  her  brilliant 
song.  There  were  wild  flowers  to  pluck — the  bright 
red  poppy,  the  gentle  harebell,  the  cowslip,  and  the 
rose.  There  were  birds  to  watch ;  fish ;  ants ;  worms ; 
hares  or  rabbits,  as  they  darted  across  the  distant 
pathway  in  the  wood,  and  so  were  gone ;  millions  of 
living  things  to  have  an  interest  in,  and  lie  in  wait 
for,  and  clap  hands  and  shout  in  memory  of,  when 
they  had  disappeared.  In  default  of  these,  or  when 
they  wearied,  there  was  the  merry  sunlight  to  hunt 
out,  as  it  crept  in  aslant  through  leaves  and  boughs 
of  trees,  and  hid  far  down  —  deep,  deep,  in  hollow 
places — like  a  silver  pool,  where  nodding  branches 
seemed  to  bathe  and  sport ;  sweet  scents  of  summer 
air  breathing  over  fields  of  beaus  or  clover ;  the  per¬ 
fume  of  wet  leaves  or  moss ;  the  life  of  waving  trees, 
and  shadows  always  changing.  When  these  or  any 
of  them  tired,  or  in  excess  of  pleasing  tempted  him 
to  shht  his  eyes,  there  was  slumber  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  soft  delights,  with  the  gentle  wind  murmur¬ 
ing  like  music  in  his  ears,  and  every  thing  around 
melting  into  one  delicious  dream. 

Their  hut — for  it  was  little  more  —  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  town,  at  a  short  distance  from  the 
high-road,  but  in  a  secluded  place,  where  few  chance 
passengers  strayed  at  any  season  of  the  year.  It  had 
a  plot  of  garden-ground  attached,  which  Barnaby,  in 
fits  and  starts  of  working,  trimmed,  and  kept  in  or¬ 
der.  Within  doors  and  without,  his  mother  labored 
for  their  common  good;  and  hail,  rain, -snow,  or  sun¬ 
shine  found  no  difference  in  her. 


Though  so  far  removed  from  the  scenes  of  her  past 
life,  and  with  so  little  thought  or  hope  of  ever  visit¬ 
ing  them  again,  she  seemed  to  have  a  strange  desire 
to  know  what  happened  in  the  busy  world.  Any  old 
newspaper,  or  scrap  of  intelligence  from  London,  she 
caught  at  with  avidity.  The  excitement  it  produced 
was  not  of  a  pleasurable  kind,  for  her  manner  at 
such  times  expressed  the  keenest  anxiety  and  dread ; 
but  it  never  faded  in  the  least  degree.  Then,  and 
in  stormy  winter  nights,  when  the  wind  blew  loud 
and  strong,  the  old  expression  came  into  her  face, 
and  she  wrould  be  seized  with  a  fit  of  trembling,  like 
one  who  had  an  ague.  But  Barnaby  noted  little  of 
this;  and  putting  a  great  constraint  upon  herself, 
she  usually  recovered  her  accustomed  manner  before 
the  change  had  caught  his  observation. 

Grip  was  by  no  means  an  idle  or  unprofitable 
member  of  the  humble  household.  Partly  by  dint 
of  Barnaby's  tuition,  and  partly  by  pursuing  a  spe¬ 
cies  of  self-instruction  common  to  his  tribe,  and  ex¬ 
erting  his  powers  of  observation  to  the  utmost,  he 
had  acquired  a  degree  of  sagacity  which  rendered 
him  famous  for  miles  round.  His  conversational 
powers  and  surprising  performances  were  the  uni¬ 
versal  theme :  and  as  many  persons  came  to  see  the 
wonderful  raven,  aud  none  left  his  exertions  unre¬ 
warded —  when  he  condescended  to  exhibit,  which 
was  not  always,  for  genius  is  capricious — his  earn¬ 
ings  formed  an  important  item  in  the  common  stock. 
Indeed,  the  bird  himself  appeared  to  know  his  value 
well;  for  though  he  was  perfectly  free  and  unre¬ 
strained  in  the  presence  of  Barnaby  and  his  mother, 
he  maintained  in  public  an  amazing  gravity,  and 
never  stooped  to  any  other  gratuitous  performances 
than  biting  the  ankles  of  vagabond  boys  (an  exer¬ 
cise  in  which  he  much  delighted),  killing  a  fowl  or 
two  occasionally,  and  swallowing  the  dinners  of  va¬ 
rious  neighboring  dogs,  of  whom  the  boldest  held 
him  in  great  awe  and  dread. 

Time  had  glided  on  in  this  way,  and  nothing  had 
happened  to  disturb  or  change  their  mode  of  life, 
when,  one  summer's  night  in  June,  they  were  in 
their  little  garden,  resting  from  the  labors  of  the 
day.  The  widow’s  work  was  yet  upon  her  knee, 
and  strewn  upon  the  ground  about  her ;  and  Barna¬ 
by  stood  leaning  on  his  spade,  gazing  at  the  bright¬ 
ness  in  the  west,  and  singing  softly  to  himself. 

“A  brave  evening,  mother!  If  we  had,  chinking 
in  our  pockets,  but  a  few  specks  of  that  gold  which 
is  piled  up  yonder  in  the  sky,  we  should  be  rich  for 
life.” 

“  We  are  better  as  we  are,”  returned  the  widow, 
with  a  quiet  smile.  “Let  us  be  contented,  and  we 
do  not  want  and  need  not  care  to  have  it,  though  it 
lay  shining  at  our  feet.” 

“Ay!”  said  Barnaby,  resting  with  crossed  arms 
on  his  spade,  and  looking  wistfully  at  the  sunset, 
“  that's  well  enough,  mother ;  but  gold's  a  good 
thing  to  have.  I  wish  that  I  knew  where  to  find 
it.  Grip  and  I  could  do  much  with  gold,  be  sure 
of  that.” 

“  What  would  you  do  ?”  she  asked. 

“What!  A  world  of  things.  We’d  dress  finely 
— you  and  I,  I  mean;  not  Grip — keep  horses,  dogs, 
wear  bright  colors  and  feathers,  do  no  more  work, 
live  delicately  and  at  our  ease.  Oh,  we’d  find  uses 


ALL  IS  NOT  ’GOLD  THAT  GLITTERS. 


147 


for  it,  mother,  and  uses  that  would  do  us  good.  I 
would  1  knew  where  gold  was  buried.  How  hard 
I’d  work  to  dig  it  up  !” 

“  You  do  not  know,”  said  his  mother,  rising  from 
her  seat  and  laying  her  hand  upon  his  shoulder, 
“  what  men  have  done  to  win  it,  and  how  they  have 
found,  too  late,  that  it  glitters  brightest  at  a  dis¬ 
tance,  and  turns  quite  dim  and  dull  when  handled.” 


your  head  and  mine  as  few  have  known,  and  God 
grant  few  may  have  to  undergo.  I  would  rather 
we  were  dead  and  laid  down  in  our  graves,  than  you 
should  ever  come  to  love  it.” 

For  a  moment  Barnahy  withdrew  his  eyes  and 
looked  at  her  with  wonder.  Then,  glancing  from 
the  redness  in  the  sky  to  the  mark  upon  his  wrist 
as  if  he  would  compare  the  two,  he  seemed  about  to 


THE  WIDOW’S  WOEK  WAS  VET  UPON  JIEE  KNEE,  AND  STEEWN  UPON  THE  GKOUND  ABOUT  HEE j  AND  BAENABY  STOOD  LEANING  ON  HIS  SPADE. 


“Ay,  ay ;  so  you  say ;  so  you  think,”  he  answered, 
still  looking  eagerly  in  the  same  direction.  “For 
all  that,  mother,  I  should  like  to  try.” 

“Do  you  not  see,”  she  said,  “how  red  it  is? 
Nothing  hears  so  many  stains  of  blood  as  gold. 
Avoid  it.  None  have  such  cause  to  hate  its  name 
as  we  have.  Do  not  so  much  as  think  of  it,  dear 
love.  It  has  brought  such  misery  and  suffering  on 


question  her  with  earnestness,  when  a  new  object 
caught  his  wandering  attention,  and  made  him  quite 
forgetful  of  his  purpose. 

This  was  a  man  with  dusty  feet  and  garments, 
who  stood,  hare-headed,  behind  the  hedge  that  di¬ 
vided  their  patch  of  garden  from  the  pathway,  and 
leaned  meekly  forward  as  if  he  sought  to  mingle 
with  their  conversation,  and  waited  for  hi's  time  to 


148 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


speak.  His  face  was  turned  toward  the  brightness, 
too,  but  the  light  that  fell  upon  it  showed  that  he 
was  blind,  and  saw  it  not. 

“A  blessing  on  those  voices!’’  said  the  wayfarer. 
“  I  feel  the  beauty  of  the  night  more  keenly,  when  I 
hear  them.  They  are  like  eyes  to  me.  Will  they 
speak  again,  and  cheer  the  heart  of  a  poor  trav¬ 
eler  ?” 

“  Have  you  no  guide  ?”  asked  the  widow,  after  a 
moment’s  pause. 

“None  but  that,”  he  answered,  pointing  with  his 
staff  toward  the  sun  ;  “  and  sometimes  a  milder  one 
at  night,  but  she  is  idle  now.” 

“  Have  you  traveled  far  ?” 

“A  weary  way  and  long,”  rejoined  the  traveler 
as  he  shook  his  head.  “A  weary,  weary  way.  I 
struck  my  stick  just  now  upon  the  bucket  of  your 
well — be  pleased  to  let  me  have  a  draught  of  water, 
lady.” 

“Why  do  you  call  me  lady?”  she  returned.  “I 
am  as  poor  as  you.” 

“Your  speech  is  soft  and  gentle,  and  I  judge  by 
that,”  replied  the  man.  “  The  coarsest  stuffs  and 
linest  silks,  are — apart  from  the  sense  of  touch — 
alike  to  me.  I  can  not  judge  you  by  your  dress.” 

“  Come  round  this  way,”  said  Barnaby,  who  had 
passed  out  at  the  garden  gate  and  now  stood  close 
beside  him.  “  Put  your  hand  in  mine.  You’re  blind 
and  always  in  the  dark,  eh  ?  Are  you  frightened  in 
the  dark  ?  Do  you  see  great  crowds  of  faces,  now  ? 
Do  they  grin  and  chatter  ?” 

“Alas !”  returned  the  other,  “  I  see  nothing.  Wak¬ 
ing  or  sleeping,  nothing.” 

Barnaby  looked  curiously  at  his  eyes,  and  touch¬ 
ing  them  with  his  fingers,  as  an  inquisitive  child 
might,  led  him  toward  the  house. 

“  You  have  come  a  long  distance,”  said  the  widow, 
meeting  him  at  the  door.  “How  have  you  found 
your  way  so  far  ?” 

“  Use  and  necessity  are  good  teachers,  as  I  have 
heard — the  best  of  any,”  said  the  blind  man,  sit¬ 
ting  down  upon  the  chair  to  which  Barnaby  had  led 
him,  and  putting  his  hat  and  stick  upon  the  red- 
tiled  floor.  “May  neither  you  nor  your  son  ever 
learn  under  them.  They  are  rough  masters.” 

“  You  have  wandered  from  the  road,  too,”  said  the 
widow,  in  a  tone  of  pity. 

“  Maybe,  maybe,”  returned  the  blind  man  with  a 
sigh,  and  yet  with  something  of  a  smile  upon  his 
face,  “  that’s  likely.  Hand-posts  and  mile-stones  are 
dumb,  indeed,  to  me.  Thank  you  the  more  for  this 
rest,  and  this  refreshing  drink!” 

As  he  spoke,  he  raised  the  mug  of  water  to  his 
mouth.  It  was  clear,  and  cold,  and  sparkling,  but 
not  to  his  taste  nevertheless,  or  his  thirst  was  not 
very  great,  for  he  only  wetted  his  lips  and  put  it 
down  again. 

He  wore,  hanging  with  a  long  strap  round  his 
neck,  a  kind  of  scrip  or  wallet,  in  which  to  carry 
food.  The  widow  set  some  bread  and  cheese  before 
him,  but  he  thanked  her,  and  said  that  through  the 
kindness  of  the  charitable  he  had  broken  his  fast 
once  since  morning,  and  was  not  hungry.  Wheu  he 
had  made  her  this  reply,  he  opened  his  wallet  and 
took  out  a  few  pence,  which  was  all  it  appeared  to 
contain. 


“  Might  I  make  bold  to  ask,”  he  said,  turning  to¬ 
ward  where  Barnaby  stood  looking  on,  “that  one 
who  has  the  gift  of  sight,  would  lay  this  out  for  me 
in  bread  to  keep  me  on  my  way?  Heaven’s  bless¬ 
ing  on  the  young  feet  that  will  bestir  themselves  in 
aid  of  one  so  helpless  as  a  sightless  man !” 

Barnaby  looked  at  his  mother,  who  nodded  as¬ 
sent  ;  in  another  moment  he  was  gone  upon  his 
charitable  errand.  The  blind  man  sat  listening 
wfitli  an  attentive  face,  until  long  after  the  sound  of 
his  retreating  footsteps  was  inaudible  to  the  widow, 
and  then  said,  suddenly,  and  in  a  very  altered  tone  : 

“There  are  various  degrees  and  kinds  of  blind¬ 
ness,  widow.  There  is  the  connubial  blindness, 
ma’am,  which  perhaps  you  may  have  observed  in 
the  course  of  your  own  experience,  and  which  is  a 
kind  of  willful  and  self-bandaging  blindness.  There 
is  the  blindness  of  party,  ma’am,  and  public  men, 
which  is  the  blindness  of  a  mad  bull  in  the  midst  of 
a  regiment  of  soldiers  clothed  in  red.  There  is  the 
blind  confidence  of  youth,  which  is  the  blindness  of 
young  kittens,  whose  eyes  have  not  yet  opened  on 
the  world;  and  there  is  that  physical  blindness, 
ma’am,  of  which  I  am,  contrary  to  my  own  desire,  a 
most  illustrious  example.  Added  to  these,  ma’am, 
is  that  blindness  of  the  intellect,  of  which  we  have 
a  specimen  in  your  interesting  son,  and  which,  hav¬ 
ing  sometimes  glimmerings  and  dawnings  of  the 
light,  is  scarcely  to  be  trusted  as  a  total  darkness. 
Therefore,  ma’am,  I  have  taken  the  liberty  to  get 
him  out  of  the  way  for  a  short  time,  while  you  and 
I  confer  together,  and  this  precaution  arising  out  of 
the  delicacy  of  my  sentiments  toward  yourself,  you 
will  excuse  me,  ma’am,  I  know.” 

Having  delivered  himself  of  this  speech  with  many 
flourishes  of  manner,  he  drew  from  beneath  his  coat 
a  flat  stone  bottle,  and  holding  the  cork  between  his 
teeth,  qualified  his  mug  of  water  with  a  plentiful  in¬ 
fusion  of  the  liquor  it  contained.  He  politely  drain¬ 
ed  the  bumper  to  her  health,  and  the  ladies,  and  set¬ 
ting  it  down  empty,  smacked  his  lips  with  infinite 
relish. 

“I  am  a  citizen,  of  the  world,  ma’am,”  said  the 
blind  man,  corking  his  bottle,  “and  if  I  seem  to  con¬ 
duct  myself  with  freedom,  it  is  therefore.  You  won¬ 
der  who  I  am,  ma’am,  and  what  has  brought  me 
here.  Such  experience  of  human  nature  as  I  have, 
leads  me  to  that  conclusion,  without  the  aid  of  eyes 
by  which  to  read  the  movements  of  your  soul  as 
depicted  in  your  feminine  features.  I  will  satisfy 
your  curiosity  immediately,  ma’am ;  im-mediately.” 
With  that  he  slapped  his  bottle  on  its  broad  back, 
and  having  put  it  under  his  garment  as  before,  cross¬ 
ed  his  legs  and  folded  his  hands,  and  settled  himself 
in  his  chair,  previous  to  proceeding  any  farther. 

The  change  in  his  manner  was  so  unexpected,  the 
craft  and  wickedness  of  his  deportment  were  so 
much  aggravated  bv  his  condition — for  we  are  ac- 
customed  to  see  in  those  who  have  lost  a  human 
sense,  something  in  its  place  almost  divine — and  this 
alteration  bred  so  many  fears  in  her  whom  he  ad¬ 
dressed,  that  she  could  not  pronounce  one  word. 
After  waiting,  as  it  seemed,  for  some  remark  or  an¬ 
swer,  and  waiting  in  vain,  the  visitor  resumed: 

“  Madam,  my  name  is  Stagg.  A  friend  of  mine 
who  has  desired  the  honor  of  meeting  with  you  any 


SEVERAL  SORTS  OF  BLINDNESS. 


149 


time  these  five  years  past,  has  commissioned  me  to 
call  upon  you.  I  should  he  glad  to  whisper  that 
gentleman’s  name  in  your  ear.  Zounds,  ma’am,  are 
you  deaf?  Do  you  hear  me  say  that  I  should  be 
glad  to  whisper  my  friend’s  name  in  your  ear  ?” 

“  You  need  not  repeat  it,”  said  the  widow,  with  a 
stifled  groan  ;  “I  see  too  well  from  whom  you  come.” 

“  But  as  a  man  of  honor,  ma’am,”  said  the  blind 
man,  striking  himself  on  the  breast,  “  whose  creden¬ 
tials  must  not  he  disputed,  I  take  leave  to  say  that  I 
will  mention  that  gentleman’s  name.  Ay,  ay,”  he 
added,  seeming  to  catch  with  his  quick  ear  the  very 
motion  of  her  hand,  “  but  not  aloud.  With  your 
leave,  ma’am,  I  desire  the  favor  of  a  whisper.” 

She  moved  toward  him,  and  stooped  down.  He 
muttered  a  word  in  her  ear;  and,  wringing  her 
hands,  she  paced  up  and  down  the  room  like  one 
distracted.  The  blind  man,  with  perfect  composure, 
produced  his  bottle  again,  mixed  another  glassful; 
put  it  up  as  before ;  and,  drinking  from  time  to  time, 
followed  her  with  his  face  in  silence. 

“You  are  slow  in  conversation,  widow,”  he  said 
after  a  time,  pausing  in  his  draught.  “We  shall 
have  to  talk  before  your  son.” 

“  What  would  you  have  me  do  ?”  she  answered. 
“  What  do  you  want  ?” 

“  We  are  poor,  widow,  we  are  poor,”  he  retorted, 
stretching  out  his  right  hand,  and  rubbing  his 
thumb  upon  its  palm. 

“  Poor !”  she  cried.  “And  what  am  I  ?” 

“Comparisons  are  odious,”  said  the  blind  man. 
“  I  don’t  know,  I  don’t  care.  I  say  that  we  are  poor. 
My  friend’s  circumstances  are  indifferent,  and  so  are 
mine.  We  must  have  our  rights,  widow,  or  we  must 
be  bought  off.  But  you  know  that  as  well  as  I,  so 
where  is  the  use  of  talking  ?” 

She  still  walked  wildly  to  and  fro.  At  length, 
stopping  abruptly  before  him,  she  said : 

“  Is  he  near  here  ?” 

“  He  is.  Close  at  hand.” 

“  Then  I  am  lost !” 

“  Not  lost,  widow,”  said  the  blind  man,  calmly, 
“  only  found.  Shall  I  call  him  ?” 

“  Not  for  the  world,”  she  answered,  with  a  shudder. 

“Very  good,”  he  replied,  crossing  his  legs  again, 
for  he  had  made  as  though  he  would  rise  and  walk 
to  the  door.  “As  you  please,  widow.  His  presence 
is  not  necessary  that  I  know  of.  But  both  he  and  I 
must  live ;  to  live,  we  must  eat  and  drink ;  to  eat 
and  drink,  we  must  have  money :  I  say  no  more.” 

“Do  you  know  how  pinched  and  destitute  I  am?” 
she  retorted.  “  I  do  not  think  you  do,  or  can.  If 
you  had  eyes,  and  could  look  around  you  on  this  poor 
place,  you  would  have  pity  on  me.  Oh !  let  your 
heart  be  softened  by  your  own  affliction,  friend,  and 
have  some  sympathy  with  mine.” 

The  blind  man  snapped  his  fingers  as  he  answered  : 

“ — Beside  the  question,  ma’am,  beside  the  ques¬ 
tion.  I  have  the  softest  heart  in  the  world,  bnt  I 
can’t  live  upon  it.  Many  a  gentleman  lives  well 
upon  a  soft  head,  who  would  find  a  heart  of  the 
same  quality  a  very  great  drawback.  Listen  to  me. 
This  is  a  matter  of  business,  with  which  sympathies 
and  sentiments  have  nothing  to  do.  As  a  mutual 
friend,  I  wish  to  arrange  it  in  a  satisfactory  manner, 
if  possible ;  and  thus  the  case  stands.  If  you  are 


very  poor  now,  it’s  your  own  choice.  You  have 
friends  who,  in  case  of  need,  are  always  ready  to 
help  you.  My  friend  is  in  a  more  destitute  and  des¬ 
olate  situation  than  most  men,  and,  you  and  he  be¬ 
ing  linked  together  in  a  common  cause,  he  naturally 
looks  to  you  to  assist  him.  He  has  boarded  and 
lodged  with  me  a  long  time  (for  as  I  said  just  now, 
I  am  very  soft-hearted),  and  I  quite  approve  of  his 
entertaining  this  opinion.  You  have  always  had  a 
roof  over  your  head ;  he  has  always  been  an  outcast. 
You  have  your  son  to  comfort  and  assist  you  ;  he  has 
nobody  at  all.  The  advantages  must  not  be  all  one 
side.  You  are  in  the  same  boat,  and  we  must  di¬ 
vide  the  ballast  a  little  more  equally.” 

She  was  about  to  speak,  but  he  checked  her,  and 
went  on. 

“  The  only  way  of  doing  this,  is  by  making  up  a 
little  purse  now  and  then  for  my  friend ;  and  that’s 
what  I  advise.  He  bears  you  no  malice  that  I  know 
of,  ma’am  :  so  little,  that  although  you  have  treated 
him  harshly  more  than  once,  and  driven  him,  I  may 
say,  out-of-doors,  he  has  that  regard  for  you  that  I 
believe  even  if  you  disappointed  him  now,  he  would 
consent  to  take  charge  of  your  son,  and  to  make  a 
man  of  him.” 

He  laid  a  great  stress  on  these  latter  words,  and 
paused  as  if  to  find  out  what  effect  they  had  pro¬ 
duced.  She  only  answered  by  her  tears. 

“He  is  a  likely  lad,”  said  the  blind  man, thought¬ 
fully,  “for  many  purposes,  and  not  ill-disposed  to 
try  his  fortune  in  a  little  change  and  bustle,  if  I  may 
judge  from  what  I  heard  of  his  talk  with  you  to¬ 
night. — Come.  In  a  word,  my  friend  has  pressing 
necessity  for  twenty  pounds.  You,  who  can  give  up 
an  annuity,  can  get  that  sum  for  him.  It’s  a  pity 
you  should  be  troubled.  You  seem  very  comforta¬ 
ble  here,  and  it’s  worth  that  much  to  remain  so. 
Twenty  pounds,  widow,  is  a  moderate  demand.  You 
know  where  to  apply  for  it ;  a  post  will  bring  it  you. 
Twenty  pounds !” 

She  was  about  to  answer  him  again,  but  again  he 
stopped  her. 

“  Don’t  say  any  thing  hastily ;  you  might  be  sor¬ 
ry  for  it.  Think  of  it  a  little  while.  Twenty  pounds 
— of  other  people’s  money — how  easy !  Turn  it  over 
in  your  mind.  I’m  in  no  hurry.  Night’s  coming  on, 
and  if  I  don’t  sleep  here,  I  shall  not  go  far.  Twenty 
pounds !  Consider  of  it,  ma’am,  for  twenty  minutes ; 
give  each  pound  a  minute ;  that’s  a  fair  allowance. 
I’ll  enjoy  the  air  the  while,  which  is  very  mild  and 
pleasant  in  these  parts.” 

With  these  words  he  groped  his  way  to  the  door, 
carrying  his  chair  with  him.  Then  seating  himself, 
under  a  spreading  honeysuckle,  and  stretching  his 
legs  across  the  threshold  so  that  no  person  could 
pass  in  or  out  without  his  knowledge,  he  took  from 
his  pocket  a  pipe,  flint,  steel  and  tinder-box,  and  be¬ 
gan  to  smoke.  It  was  a  lovely  evening,  of  that  gen¬ 
tle  kind,  and  at  that  time  of  year,  when  the  twilight 
is  most  beautiful.  Pausing  now  and  then  to  let  his 
smoke  curl  slowly  off,  and  to  sniff  the  grateful  fra¬ 
grance  of  the  flowers,  he  sat  there  at  his  ease  —  as 
though  the  cottage  were  his  proper  dwelling,  and 
he  had  held  undisputed  possession  of  it  all  his  life — 
waiting  for  the  widow’s  answer  and  for  Burnaby’s 
return.  * 


150 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


\ 


CHAPTER  XL VI. 

WHEN  Barnaby  returned  'with  the  bread,  the 
sight  of  the  pious  old  pilgrim  smoking  his 
pipe  and  making  himself  so  thoroughly  at  home, 
appeared  to  surprise  even  him ;  the  more  so,  as  that 
worthy  person,  instead  of  putting  up  the  loaf  in  his 
wallet  as  a  scarce  and  precious  article,  tossed  it  care¬ 
lessly  on  the  table,  and  producing  his  bottle,  bade 
him  sit  down  and  drink. 

“For  I  carry  some  comfort,  you  see/’  he  said. 
“  Taste  that.  Is  it  good  ?” 

The  water  stood  in  Barnaby’s  eyes  as  he  coughed 
from  the  strength  of  the  draught,  and  answered  in 
the  affirmative. 

“Drink  some  more,”  said  the  blind  man;  “don’t 
be  afraid  of  it.  You  don’t  taste  any  thing  like  that 
often,  eh  ?” 

“  Often !”  cried  Barnaby.  “  Never !” 

“Too  poor ?” returned  the  blind  man  with  a  sigh. 
“  Ay.  That’s  bad.  Your  mother,  poor  soul,  would 
be  happier  if  she  was  richer,  Barnaby.” 

“  Why,  so  I  tell  her  —  the  very  thing  I  told  her 
just  before  you  came  to-night,  when  all  that  gold 
was  in  the  sky,*’  said  Barnaby,  drawing  his  chair 
nearer  to  him,  and  looking  eagerly  in  his  face. 
“  Tell  me.  Is  there  any  way  of  being  rich,  that  I 
could  find  out  ?” 

“Any  way !  A  hundred  ways.” 

“Ay,  ay!”  he  returned.  “Do  you  say  so  ?  What 
are  they  ?  Nay,  mother,  it’s  for  your  sake  I  ask ;  not 
mine ;  for  yours,  indeed.  What  are  they  ?” 

The  blind  man  turned  his  face,  on  which  there 
was  a  smile  of  triumph,  to  where  the  widow  stood 
in  great  distress ;  and  answered, 

“Why,  they  are  not  to  be  found  out  by  stay-at- 
homes,  my  good  friend.” 

“By  stay-at-homes !”  cried  Barnaby,  plucking  at 
his  sleeve.  “  But  I  am  not  one.  Now,  there  you 
mistake.  I  am  often  out  before  the  sun,  and  travel 
home  when  he  has  gone  to  rest.  I  am  away  in  the 
woods  before  the  day  has  reached  the  shady  places, 
and  am  often  there  when  the  bright  moon  is  peep¬ 
ing  through  the  boughs,  and  looking  down  upon  the 
other  moon  that  lives  in  the  water.  As  I  walk 
along,  I  try  to  find,  among  the  grass  and  moss,  some 
of  that  small  money  for  which  she  works  so  hard 
and  used  to  shed  so  many  tears.  As  I  lie  asleep  in 
the  shade,  I  dream  of  it — dream  of  digging  it  up  in 
heaps ;  and  spying  it  out,  hidden  under  bushes ;  and 
seeing  it  sparkle,  as  the  dew-drops  do,  among  the 
leaves.  But  I  never  find  it.  Tell  me  where  it  is. 
I’d  go  there,  if  the  journey  were  a  whole  year  long, 
because  I  know  she  would  be  happier  when  I  came 
home  and  brought  some  with  me.  Speak  again.  I’ll 
listen  to  you  if  you  talk  all  night.” 

The  blind  man  passed  his  hand  lightly  over  the 
poor  fellow’s  face,  and  finding  that  his  elbows  were 
planted  on  the  table,  that  his  chin  rested  on  his 
two  hands,  that  he  leaned  eagerly  forward,  and  that 
his  whole  manner  expressed  the  utmost  interest  and 
anxiety,  paused  for  a  minute  as  though  he  desired 
the  widow  to  observe  this  fully,  and  then  made  an¬ 
swer  : 

“It’s  in  the  world, bold  Barnaby,  the  merry  world; 
not  in  solitary  places  like  those  you  pass  your  time 


in,  but  in  crowds,  and  where  there’s  noise  and  rat¬ 
tle.” 

“  Good !  good !”  cried  Barnaby,  rubbing  his  hands. 
“  Yes !  I  love  that.  Grip  loves  it  too.  It  suits  us 
both.  That’s  brave !” 

“ — The  kind  of  places,”  said  the  blind  man,  “that 
a  young  fellow  likes,  and  in  which  a  good  son  may 
do  more  for  his  mother,  and  himself  to  boot,  in  a 
month,  than  he  could  here  in  all  his  life — that  is,  if 
he  had  a  friend,  you  know,  and  some  one  to  advise 
with.” 

“You  hear  this,  mother  ?”  cried  Barnaby,  turning 
to  her  with  delight.  “  Never  tell  me  we  shouldn’t 
heed  it,  if  it  lay  shining  at  our  feet.  Why  do  we 
heed  it  so  much  now  ?  Why  do  you  toil  from  morn¬ 
ing  until  night?” 

“  Surely,”  said  the  blind  man,  “  surely.  Have  you 
no  answer,  widow  ?  Is  your  mind,”  he  slowly  add¬ 
ed,  “  not  made  up  yet  ?” 

“  Let  me  speak  with  you,”  she  answered,  “  apart.” 

“Lay  your  hand  upon  my  sleeve,”  said  Stagg, 
arising  from  the  table,  “and  lead  me  where  you 
will.  Courage,  bold  Barnaby.  We’ll  talk  more  of 
this :  I’ve  a  fancy  for  you.  Wait  there  till  I  come 
back.  Now,  widow.” 

She  led  him  out  at  the  door,  and  into  the  little 
garden,  where  they  stopped. 

“You  are  a  fit  agent,”  she  said,  in  a  half  breath¬ 
less  manner,  “and  well  represent  the  man  who  sent 
you  here.” 

“  I’ll  tell  him  that  you  said  so,”  Stagg  retorted. 
“He  has  a  regard  for  you,  and  will  respect  me  the 
more  (if  possible)  for  your  praise.  We  must  have 
our  rights,  widow.” 

“  Rights !  Do  you  know,”  she  said,  “  that  a  word 
from  me — ” 

“  Why  do  you  stop  ?”  returned  the  blind  man 
calmly,  after  a  long  pause.  “Do  I  know  that  a 
word  from  you  would  place  my  friend  in  the  last 
position  of  the  dance  of  life  ?  Yes,  I  do.  What  of 
that  ?  It  will  never  be  spoken,  widow.” 

“  You  are  sure  of  that  ?” 

“  Quite — so  sure,  that  I  don’t  come  here  to  discuss 
the  question.  I  say  we  must  have  our  rights,  or  we 
must  be  bought  otf.  Keep  to  that  point,  or  let  me 
return  to  my  young  friend,  for  I  have  an  interest  in 
the  lad,  and  desire  to  put  him  in  the  way  of  making 
his  fortune.  Bah !  you  needn’t  speak,”  he  added, 
hastily ;  “  I  know  what  you  would  say :  you  have 
hinted  at  it  once  already.  Have  I  no  feeling  for  you 
because  I  am  blind  ?  No,  I  have  not.  Why  do  you 
expect  me,  being  in  darkness,  to  be  better  than  men 
who  have  their  sight  —  why  should  you  ?  Is  the 
hand  of  Heaven  more  manifest  in  my  having  no 
eyes,  than  in  your  having  two  ?  It’s  the  cant  of 
you  folks  to  be  horrified  if  a  blind  man  robs,  or  lies, 
or  steals ;  oh  yes,  it’s  far  worse  in  him,  who  can 
barely  live  on  the  few  half-pence  that  are  thrown  to 
him  in  streets,  than  in  you,  who  can  see,  and  work, 
and  are  not  dependent  on  the  mercies  of  the  world. 
A  CTirse  on  you  !  You  who  have  five  senses  may  be 
wicked  at  your  pleasure ;  we  who  have  four,  and 
want  the  most  important,  are  to  live  and  be  moral 
on  our  affliction.  The  true  charity  and  justice  of 
rich  to  poor,  all  the  world  over !” 

He  paused  a  moment  when  he  had  said  these 


AU  BE  VO  IE! 


151 


words,  and  caught  the  sound  of  money,  jingling  in 
her  hand. 

“Well?”  he  cried,  quickly  resuming  his  former 
manner.  “That  should  lead  to  something.  The 
point,  widow  ?” 

“First  answer  me  one  question,”  she  replied. 
“You  say  he  is  close  at  hand.  Has  he  left  Lon¬ 
don  ?” 

“  Being  close  at  hand,  widow,  it  would  seem  he 
has,”  returned  the  blind  mau. 

“  I  mean,  for  good  ?  You  know  that.” 

“Yes,  for  good.  The  truth  is,  widow,  that  his 
making  a  longer  stay  there  might  have  had  disa¬ 
greeable  consequences.  He  has  come  away  for  that 
reason.” 

“Listen,”  said  the  widow,  telling  some  money  out 
upon  a  bench  beside  them.  “  Count.” 

“  Six,”  said  the  blind  man,  listening  attentively. 
“  Any  more  ?” 

“They  are  the  savings,”  she  answered,  “of  five 
years.  Six  guineas.” 

He  put  out  his  hand  for  one  of  the  coins ;  felt  it 
carefully,  put  it  between  his  teeth,  rung  it  on  the 
bench ;  and  nodded  to  her  to  proceed. 

“  These  have  been  scraped  together  and  laid  by, 
lest  sickness  or  death  should  separate  my  son  and 
me.  They  have  been  purchased  at  the  price  of 
much  hunger,  hard  labor,  and  want  of  rest.  If  you 
can  take  them — do  —  on  condition  that  you  leave 
this  place  upon  the  instant,  and  enter  no  more  into 
that  room,  where  he  sits  now,  expecting  your  return.” 

“Six  guineas,”  said  the  blind  man,  shaking  his 
head,  “  though  of  the  fullest  weight  that  were  ever 
coined,  fall  very  far  short  of  twenty  pounds,  widow.” 

“For  such  a  sum,  as  you  know,  I  must  write  to 
a  distant  part  of  the  country.  To  do  that,  and  re¬ 
ceive  an  answer,  I  must  have  time.” 

“Two  days?”  said  Stagg. 

“  More.” 

“  Four  days  ?” 

“A  week.  Return  on  this  day  week,  at  the  same 
hour,  but  not  to  the  house.  Wait  at  the  corner  of 
the  lane.” 

“Of  course,”  said  the  blind  man,  with  a  crafty 
look,  “  I  shall  find  you  there  ?” 

“  Where  else  can  I  take  refuge  ?  Is  it  not  enough 
that  you  have  made  a  beggar  of  me,  and  that  I  have 
sacrificed  my  whole  store,  so  hardly  earned,  to  pre¬ 
serve  this  home  ?” 

“Humph!”  said  the  blind  man,  after  some  con¬ 
sideration.  “  Set  me  with  my  face  toward  the  point 
you  speak  of,  and  in  the  middle  of  the  road.  Is  this 
the  spot  ?” 

“It  is.” 

“  On  this  day  week  at  sunset.  And  think  of  him 
within  doors. — For  the  present,  good-night.” 

She  made  him  no  answer,  nor  did  he  stop  for  any. 
He  went  slowly  away,  turning  his  head  from  time 
to  time,  and  stopping  to  listen,  as  if  he  were  curi¬ 
ous  to  know  whether  he  was  watched  by  any  one. 
The  shadows  of  night  were  closing  fast  around,  and 
he  was  soon  lost  in  the  gloom.  It  was  not,  how¬ 
ever,  until  she  had  traversed  the  lane  from  end  to 
end,  and  made  sure  that  he  was  gone,  that  she  re- 
eutered  the  cottage,  and  hurriedly  barred  the  door 
and  window. 


“  Mother !”  said  Barnaby.  “  What  is  the  matter  ? 
Where  is  the  blind  man  ?” 

“  He  is  gone.” 

“Gone!”  he  cried,  starting  up.  “I  must  have 
more  talk  with  him.  Which  way  did  he  take  ?” 

“  I  don’t  know,”  she  answered,  foldiug  her  arms 
about  him.  “  You  must  not  go  out  to-night.  There 
are  ghosts  aud  dreams  abroad.” 

“Ay?”  said  Baruaby,  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

“  It  is  not  safe  to  stir.  We  must  leave  this  place 
to-morrow.” 

“This  place!  This  cottage — and  the  little  gar¬ 
den,  mother !” 

“  Yes !  To-morrow  morning  at  sunrise.  We  must 
travel  to  London  ;  lose  ourselves  in  that  wide  place 
— there  would  be  some  trace  of  us  in  any  other  town 
— then  travel  on  again,  and  find  some  new  abode.” 

Little  persuasion  was  required  to  reconcile  Bar¬ 
naby  to  any  thing  that  promised  change.  In  an¬ 
other  minute,  he  was  wild  with  delight ;  in  anoth¬ 
er,  full  of  grief  at  the  prospect  of  parting  with  his 
friends  the  dogs ;  in  another,  wild  again ;  then  he 
was  fearful  of  what  she  had  said  to  prevent  his 
wandering  abroad  that  night,  and  full  of  terrors  and 
strange  questions.  His  light-heartedness  in  the  end 
surmounted  all  his  other  feelings,  and  lying  down  in 
his  clothes  to  the  end  that  he  might  be  ready  on  the 
morrow,  he  soon  fell  fast  asleep  before  the  poor  turf 
fire. 

His  mother  did  not  close  her  eyes,  but  sat  beside 
him,  watching.  Every  breath  of  wind  sounded  in 
her  ears  like  that  dreaded  footstep  at  the  door,  or 
like  that  hand  upon  the  latch,  and  made  the  calm 
summer  night,  a  night  of  horror.  At  length  the 
welcome  day  appeared.  When  she  had  made  the  lit¬ 
tle  preparations  which  were  needful  for  their  jour¬ 
ney,  and  had  prayed  upon  her  knees  with  many 
tears,  she  roused  Barnaby,  who  jumped  up  gayly  at 
her  summons. 

His  clothes  were  few  enough,  and  to  carry  Grip 
was  a  labor  of  love.  As  the  sun  shed  his  earliest 

i 

beams  upon  the  earth,  they  closed  the  door  of  their 
deserted  home,  and  turned  away.  The  sky  was  blue 
and  bright.  The  air  was  fresh  aud  filled  with  a 
thousand  perfumes.  Barnaby  looked  upward,  and 
laughed  with  all  his  heart. 

But  it  was  a  day  he  usually  devoted  to  a  long 
ramble,  and  one  of  the  dogs — the  ugliest  of  them  all 
— came  bounding  up,  and  jumping  round  him  in  the 
fullness  of  his  joy.  He  had  to  bid  him  go  back  in 
a  surly  tone,  and  his  heart  smote  him  while  he  did 
so.  The  dog  retreated ;  turned  with  a  half  incredu¬ 
lous,  half  imploring  look ;  came  a  little  back ;  and 
stopped. 

It  was  the  last  appeal  of  an  old  companion  and  a 
faithful  friend — cast  off.  Barnaby  could  bear  no 
more,  and  as  he  shook  his  head  and  waved  his  play¬ 
mate  home,  he  burst  into  tears. 

“Oh,  mother,  mother,  how  mournful  he  will  be 
when  he  scratches  at  the  door,  and  finds  it  always 
shut !” 

There  was  such  a  sense  of  home  in  the  thought, 
that  though  her  own  eyes  overflowed  she  would  not 
have  obliterated  the  recollection  of  it,  either  from 
her  own  mind  or  from  his,  for  the  wealth  of  the 
whole  wide  world. 


152 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


CHAPTER  XLYII. 

N  the  exhaustless  catalogue  of  Heaven’s  mercies 
to  mankind,  the  power  we  have  of  finding  some 
germs  of  comfort  in  the  hardest  trials  must  ever  oc¬ 
cupy  the  foremost  place;  not  only  because  it  sup¬ 
ports  and  upholds  us  when  we  most  require  to  be 
sustained,  but  because  in  this  source  of  consolation 
there  is  something,  we  have  reason  to  believe,  of  the 
divine  spirit ;  something  of  that  goodness  which  de¬ 
tects  amidst  our  own  evil  doings,  a  redeeming  qual¬ 
ity  ;  something  which,  even  in  our  fallen  nature,  we 
possess  in  common  with  the  angels ;  which  had  its 
being  in  the  old  time  when  they  trod  the  earth,  and 
lingers  on  it  yet,  in  pity. 

How  often,  on  their  journey,  did  the  widow  re¬ 
member  with  a  grateful  heart,  that  out  of  his  depri- 
vatiou  Barnaby’s  cheerfulness  and  affection  sprung! 
How  often  did  she  call  to  mind  that  but  for  that,  he 
might  have  been  sullen,  morose,  unkind,  far  removed 
from  her — vicious,  perhaps,  and  cruel !  How  often 
had  she  cause  for  comfort,  in  his  strength,  and  hope, 
and  in  his  simple  nature !  Those  feeble  powers  of 
mind  which  rendered  him  so  soon  forgetful  of  the 
past,  save  in  brief  gleams  and  flashes  —  even  they 
were  a  comfort  now.  The  world  to  him  was  full  of 
happiness ;  in  every  tree,  and  plant,  and  flower,  in 
every  bird,  and  beast,  and  tiny  insect  whom  a  breath 
of  summer  wind  laid  low  upon  the  ground,  he  had 
delight.  His  delight  was  hers;  and  where  many  a 
wise  son  would  have  made  her  sorrowful,  this  poor 
light-hearted  idiot  filled  her  breast  with  thankful¬ 
ness  and  love. 

Their  stock  of  money  was  low,  but  from  the  hoard 
she  had  told  into  the  blind  man’s  hand,  the  widow 
had  withheld  one  guinea.  This,  with  the  few  pence 
she  possessed  besides,  was  to  two  persons  of  their 
frugal  habits,  a  goodly  sum  in  bank.  Moreover, 
they  had  Grip  in  company;  and  when  they  must 
otherwise  have  changed  the  guinea,  it  was  but  to 
make  him  exhibit  outside  an  ale-house  door,  or  in  a 
village  street,  or  in  the  grounds  or  gardens  of  a  man¬ 
sion  of  the  better  sort,  and  scores  who  would  have 
given  nothing  in  charity,  were  ready  to  bargain  for 
more  amusement  from  the  talking  bird. 

One  day — for  they  moved  slowly,  and  although 
they  had  many  rides  in  carts  and  wagons,  were  on 
the  road  a  week. — Barnaby,  with  Grip  upon  his  shoul¬ 
der  and  his  mother  following,  begged  permission  at 
a  trim  lodge  to  go  up  to  the  great  house,  at  the  oth¬ 
er  end  of  the  avenue,  and  show  his  raven.  The  man 
within  was  inclined  to  give  them  admittance,  and 
was  indeed  about  to  do  so,  when  a  stout  gentleman 
with  a  long  whip  in  his  hand,  and  a  flushed  face 
which  seemed  to  indicate  that  he  had  had  his  morn¬ 
ing’s  draught,  rode  up  to  the  gate,  and  called  in  a 
loud  voice  and  with  more  oaths  than  the  occasion 
seemed  to  warrant  to  have  it  opened  directly. 

“Who  hast  thou  got  here?”  said  the  gentleman, 
angrily,  as  the  man  threw  the  gate  wide  open,  and 
pulled  off  his  hat,  “  who  are  these  ?  Eh  ?  art  a  beg¬ 
gar,  woman  ?” 

The  widow  answered  with  a  courtesy,  that  they 
were  poor  travelers. 

“  Vagrants,”  said  the  gentleman,  ^  vagrants  and 
vagabonds.  Thee  wish  to  be  made  acquainted  with 


the  cage,  dost  thee — the  cage,  the  stocks,  and  the 
wliipping-post  ?  Where  dost  come  from  ?” 

She  told  him  in  a  timid  manner — for  he  was  very 
loud,  hoarse,  and  red-faced — and  besought  him  not 
to  be  angry,  for  they  meant  no  harm,  and  would  go 
upon  their  way  that  moment. 

“  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that,”  replied  the  gentle¬ 
man,  “  we  don’t  allow  vagrants  to  roam  about  this 
place.  I  know  what  thou  want’sib — stray  linen  dry¬ 
ing  on  hedges,  and  stray  poultry,  eh?  What  hast 
got  in  that  basket,  lazy  hound  ?” 

“  Grip,  Grip,  Grip — Grip  the  clever,  Grip  the  wick¬ 
ed,  Grip  the  knowing  —  Grip,  Grip,  Grip,”  cried  the 
raven,  whom  Barnaby  had  shut  up  on  the  approach 
of  this  stern  personage.  “I’m  a  devil  I’m  a  devil 
I’m  a  devil,  Never  say  die  Hurra  Bow  wow  wow, 
Polly  put  the  kettle  on  we’ll  all  have  tea.” 

“Take  the  vermin  out,  scoundrel,”  said  the  gen¬ 
tleman,  “  and  let  me  see  him.” 

Barnaby,  thus  condescendingly  addressed,  produced 
his  bird,  but  not  without  much  fear  and  trembling, 
and  set  him  down  upon  the  ground ;  which  he  had 
no  sooner  done  than  Grip  drew  fifty  corks  at  least, 
and  then  began  to  dance;  at  the  same  time  eying 
the  gentleman  with  surprising  insolence  of  manner, 
and  screwing  his  head  so  much  on  one  side  that  he 
appeared  desirous  of  screwing  it  off  upon  the  spot. 

The  cork-drawing  seemed  to  make  a  greater  im¬ 
pression  on  the  gentleman’s  mind,  than  the  raven’s 
power  of  speech,  and  was  indeed  particularly  adapt¬ 
ed  to  his  habits  and  capacity.  He  desired  to  have 
that  done  again,  but  despite  his  being  very  peremp¬ 
tory,  and  notwithstanding  that  Barnaby  coaxed  to 
the  utmost,  Grip  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  the  request, 
and  preserved  a  dead  silence. 

“  Bring  him  along,”  said  the  gentleman,  pointing 
to  the  house.  But  Grip,  who  had  watched  the  ac¬ 
tion,  anticipated  his  master,  by  hopping  on  before 
them  ;  constantly  flapping  his  wings,  and  screaming 
“cook!”  meanwhile,  as  a  hint  perhaps  that  there 
was  company  coming,  and  a  small  collation  would 
be  acceptable. 

Barnaby  and  his  mother  walked  on,  on  either  side 
of  the  gentleman  on  horseback,  who  surveyed  each 
of  them  from  time  to  time  in  a  proud  and  coarse 
manner,  and  occasionally  thundered  out  some  ques¬ 
tion,  the  tone  of  which  alarmed  Barnaby  so  much 
that  he  could  find  no  answer,  and,  as  a  matter  of 
course,  could  make  him  no  reply.  On  one  of  these 
occasions,  when  the  gentleman  appeared  disposed  to 
exercise  his  horsewhip,  the  widow  ventured  to  in¬ 
form  him  in  a  low  voice  and  with  tears  in  her  eyes, 
that  her  son  was  of  weak  mind. 

“An  idiot,  eh?”  said  the  gentleman,  looking  at 
Barnaby  as  he  spoke.  “And  how  long  hast  thou 
been  an  idiot  ?” 

“  She  knows,”  was  Barnaby’s  timid  answer,  point¬ 
ing  to  his  mother — “  I — always,  I  believe.” 

“  From  his  birth,”  said  the  widow. 

“  I  don’t  believe  it,”  cried  the  gentleman,  “  not  a 
bit  of  it.  It’s  an  excuse  not  to  work.  There’s  noth¬ 
ing  like  flogging  to  cure  that  disorder.  I’d  make  a 
difference  in  him  in  ten  minutes,  I’ll  be  bound.” 

“  Heaven  has  made  none  in  more  than  twice  ten 
years,  sir,”  said  the  widow,  mildly. 

“  Then  why  don’t  you  shut  him  up  ?  we  pay  enough 


THE  OLD  SCHOOL. 


153 


for  county  institutions,  damn  ’em.  But  thou’d  rath¬ 
er  drag  him  about  to  excite  charity — of  course.  Ay, 
I  know  thee.” 

Now,  this  gentleman  had  various  endearing  appel¬ 
lations  among  his  intimate  friends.  By  some  he  was 
called  “  a  country  gentleman  of  the  true  school,”  by 
some  “a  fine  old  country  gentleman,”  by  some  “a 
sporting  gentleman,”  by  some  “  a  thorough-bred  En¬ 
glishman,”  by  some  “  a  genuine-  John  Bull ;”  but 
they  all  agreed  in  one  respect,  and  that  was,  that  it 
was  a  pity  there  were  not  more  like  him,  and  that 
because  there  were  not,  the  country  was  going  to  rack 
and  ruin  every  day.  He  was  in  the  commission  of 
the  peace,  and  could  write  his  name  almost  legibly  ; 
but  his  greatest  qualifications  were,  that  he  was 
more  severe  with  poachers,  was  a  better  shot,  a  hard¬ 
er  rider,  had  better  horses,  kept  better  dogs,  could 
eat  more  solid  food,  driuk  more  strong  wine,  go  to 
bed  Svery  night  more  drunk  and  get  up  every  morn¬ 
ing  more  sober,  than  any  man  in  the  county.  In 
knowledge  of  horse-flesh  he  was  almost  equal  to  a 
farrier,  in  stable  learning  he  surpassed  his  own  head 
groom,  and  in  gluttony  not  a  pig  on  his  estate  was 
a  match  for  him.  He  had  no  seat  in  Parliament 
himself,  but  he  was  extremely  patriotic,  and  usually 
drove  his  voters  up  to  the  poll  with  his  own  hands. 
He  was  warmly  attached  to  Church  and  State,  aud 
never  appointed  to  the  living  in  his  gift  any  but  a 
three -bottle  man  and  a  first-rate  fox-hunter.  He 
mistrusted  the  honesty  of  all  poor  people  who  could 
read  and  write,  and  had  a  secret  jealousy  of  his  own 
wife  (a  young  lady  whom  he  had  married  for  what 
his  friends  called  “the  good  old  English  reason,” 
that  her  father’s  property  adjoined  his  own)  for  pos¬ 
sessing  those  accomplishments  in  a  greater  degi'ee 
than  himself.  In  short,  Barnaby  being  an  idiot,  and 
Grip  a  creature  of  mere  brute  instinct,  it  would  be 
very  hard  to  say  what  this  gentleman  was. 

He  rode  up  to  the  door  of  a  handsome  house  ap¬ 
proached  by  a  great  flight  of  steps,  where  a  man  was 
waiting  to  take  his  horse,  and  led  the  way  into  a 
large  hall,  which,  spacious  as  it  was,  was  tainted 
with  the  fumes  of  last  night’s  stale  debauch.  Great¬ 
coats,  riding-whips,  bridles,  top-boots,  spurs,  and  such 
gear,  were  strewn  about  on  all  sides,  and  formed, 
with  some  huge  stags’  antlers,  and  a  few  portraits 
of  dogs  and  horses,  its  principal  embellishments. 

Throwing  himself  into  a  great  chair  (in  which,  by- 
the-bye,  he  often  snored  away  the  night,  when  he 
had  been,  according  to  his  admirers,  a  finer  country 
gentleman  than  usual)  he  bade  the  man  to  tell  his 
mistress  to  come  down :  and  presently  there  appear¬ 
ed,  a  little  flurried,  as  it  seemed,  by  the  unwonted 
summons,  a  lady  much  younger  than  himself,  who 
had  the  appearance  of  being  in  delicate  health,  and 
not  too  happy. 

“Here!  Thou’st  no  delight  in  following  the 
hounds  as  an  Englishwoman  should  have,”  said  the 
gentleman.  “  See  to  this  here.  That’ll  please  thee, 
perhaps.” 

The  lady  smiled,  sat  down  at  a  little  distance  from 
him,  and  glanced  at  Barnaby  with  a  look  of  pity. 

“He’s  an  idiot,  the  woman  says,”  observed  the 
gentleman,  shaking  his  head  ;  “  I  don’t  believe  it.” 

“Are  you  his  mother?”  asked  the  lady. 

She  answered  yes. 


“  What’s  the  use  of  asking  her  ?”  said  the  gentle¬ 
man,  thrusting  his  hands  into  his  breeclies-pockets. 
“  She’ll  tell  thee  so,  of  course.  Most  likely  he’s 
hired,  at  so  much  a  day.  There.  Get  on.  Make 
him  do  something.” 

Grip  having  by  this  time  recovered  his  urbanity, 
condescended,  at  Barnaby’s  solicitation,  to  repeat  his 
various  phrases  of  speech,  and  to  go  through  the 
whole  of  his  performances  with  the  utmost  success. 
The  corks,  and  the  never  say  die,  afforded  the  gen¬ 
tleman  so  much  delight  that  he  demanded  the  repe¬ 
tition  of  this  part  of  the  entertainment,  until  Grip 
got  into  his  basket,  and  positively  refused  to  say 
another  word,  good  or  bad.  The  lady  too,  was  much 
amused  with  him ;  and  the  closing  point  of  his  ob¬ 
stinacy  so  delighted  her  husband  that  he  burst  into 
a  roar  of  laughter,  and  demanded  his  price. 

Barnaby  looked  as  though  he  didn’t  understand 
his  meaning.  Probably  he  did  not. 

“  His  price,”  said  the  gentleman,  rattling  the  mon¬ 
ey  in  his  pockets,  “what  dost  want  for  him?  How 
much  ?” 

“He’s  not  to  be  sold,”  replied  Barnaby,  shutting 
up  the  basket  in  a  great  hurry,  and  throwing  the 
strap  over  his  shoulder.  “  Mother,  come  away.” 

“  Thou  seest  how  much  of  an  idiot  he  is,  book- 
learner,”  said  the  gentleman,  looking  scornfully  at 
his  wife.  “He  can  make  a  bargain.  What  dost 
want  for  him,  old  woman  ?” 

“He  is  my  son’s  constant  companion,”  said  the 
widow.  “  He  is  not  to  be  sold,  sir,  indeed.” 

“Not  to  be  sold!”  cried  the  gentleman,  growing 
ten  times  redder,  hoarser,  and  louder  than  before. 
“Not  to  be  sold!” 

“Indeed  no,”  she  answered.  “We  have  never 
thought  of  parting  with  him,  sir,  I  do  assure  you.” 

He  was  evidently  about  to  make  a.  very  passionate 
retort,  when  a  few  murmured  words  from  his  wife 
happening  to  catch  his  ear,  he  turned  sharply  round, 
and  said,  “  Eh  ?  What  ?” 

“We  can  hardly  expect  them  to  sell  the  bird, 
against  their  own  desire,”  she  faltered.  “If  they 
prefer  to  keep  him — ” 

“  Prefer  to  keep  him !”  he  echoed.  “  These  peo¬ 
ple,  who  go  tramping  about  the  country  a-pilfering 
and  vagabondizing  on  all  hands,  prefer  to  keep  a 
bird,  when  a  lauded  proprietor  and  a  justice  asks 
his  price!  That  old  woman’s  been  to  school.  I 
know  she  has.  Don’t  tell  me  no,”  he  roared  to  the 
widow,  “  I  say,  yes.” 

Barnaby’s  mother  pleaded  guilty  to  the  accusa¬ 
tion,  and  hoped  there  was  no  harm  in  it. 

“  No  harm !”  said  the  gentleman.  “  No.  No  harm. 
No  harm,  ye  old  rebel,  not  a  bit  of  harm.  If  my 
clerk  was  here,  I’d  set  ye  in  the  stocks,  I  would,  or 
lay  ye  in  jail  for  prowling  up  and  down,  on  the  look¬ 
out  for  petty  larcenies,  ye  limb  of  a  gypsy.  Here, 
Simon,  put  these  pilferers  out,  shove  ’em  iuto  the 
road,  out  with  ’em  !  Ye  don’t  want  to  sell  the  bird, 
ye  that  come  here  to  beg,  don’t  ye.  If  they  an’t  out 
in  double-quick,  set  the  dogs  upon  ’em  !” 

They  waited  for  no  further  dismissal,  but  fled  pre¬ 
cipitately,  leaving  the  gentlemau  to  storm  away  by 
himself  (for  the  poor  lady  had  already  retreated), 
and  making  a  great  many  vain  attempts  to  silence 
Grip,  who,  excited  by  the  noise,  drew  corks  enough 


154 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


for  a  city  feast  as  they  hurried  down  the  avenue, 
and  appeared  to  congratulate  himself  beyond  meas¬ 
ure  on  haviug  been  the  cause  of  the  disturbance. 
When  they  had  nearly  reached  the  lodge,  another 
servant,  emerging  from  the  shrubbery,  feigned  to  be 
very  active  in  ordering  them  off,  but  this  man  put  a 
crown  into  the  widow’s  hand,  and  whispering  that 
his  lady  sent  it,  thrust  them  gently  from  the  gate. 

This  incident  only  suggested  to  the  widow’s  mind, 
when  they  halted  at  an  ale-house  some  miles  farther 
on,  and  heard  the  justice’s  character  as  given  by  his 
friends,  that  perhaps  something  more  than  capacity 
of  stomach  and  tastes  for  the  kennel  and  the  stable, 
were  required  to  form  either  a  perfect  country  gen¬ 
tleman,  a  thorough-bred  Euglishman,  or  a  genuine 
John  Bull ;  and  that  possibly  the  terms  were  some¬ 
times  misappropriated,  not  to  say  disgraced.  She 
little  thought  then,  that  a  circumstance  so  slight 
would  ever  influence  their  future  fortunes ;  hut  time 
and  experience  enlightened  her  in  this  respect. 

“  Mother,”  said  Barnaby,  as  they  were  sitting  next 
day  in  a  wagon  which  was  to  take  them  within  ten 
miles  of  the  capital,  “we’re  going  to  London  first, 
you  said.  Shall  we  see  that  blind  man  there  ?” 

She  was  about  to  answer  “Heaven  forbid!”  but 
checked  herself,  and  told  him  No,  she  thought  not ; 
why  did  he  ask  ? 

“  He’s  a  wise  man,”  said  Barnaby,  with  a  thought¬ 
ful  countenance.  “  I  wish  that  we  may  meet  with 
him  again.  What  was  it  that  he  said  of  crowds  ? 
That  gold  was  to  be  found  where  people  crowded, 
and  not  among  the  trees  and  in  such  quiet  places  ? 
He  spoke  as  if  he  loved  it ;  London  is  a  crowded 
place ;  I  think  we  shall  meet  him  there.” 

“  But  why  do  you  desire  to  see  him,  love  ?”  she 
asked. 

“Because,”  said  Barnaby,  looking  wistfully  at 
her,  “  he  talked  to  me  about  gold,  which  is  a  rare 
thing,  and  say  what  you  will,  a  thing  you  would 
like  to  have,  I  know.  And  because  he  came  and 
went  away  so  strangely — just  as  white-headed  old 
men  come  sometimes  to  my  bed’s  foot  in  the  night, 
and  say  what  I  can’t  remember  when  the  bright  day 
returns.  He  told  me  he’d  come  back.  I  wonder 
why  he  broke  his  word !” 

“  But  you  never  thought  of  being  rich  or  gay  be¬ 
fore,  dear  Barnaby.  You  have  always  been  con¬ 
tented.” 

He  laughed  and  bade  her  say  that  again,  then 
cried,  “Ay,  ay — oh  yes,”  and  laughed  once  more. 
Then  something  passed  that  caught  his  fancy,  and 
the  topic  wandered  from  his  mind,  and  was  succeed¬ 
ed  by  another  just  as  fleeting. 

But  it  was  plain  from  what  he  had  said,  and  from 
his  returning  to  the  point  more  than  once  that  day, 
and  on  the  next,  that  the  blind  man’s  visit,  and  in¬ 
deed  his  words,  had  taken  strong  possession  of  his 
mind.  Whether  the  idea  of  wealth  had  occurred  to 
him  for  the  first  time  on  looking  at  the  golden  clouds 
that  evening — and  images  were  often  presented  to 
his  thoughts  by  outward  objects  quite  as  remote 
and  distant ;  or  whether  their  poor  and  humble  way 
of  life  had  suggested  it,  by  contrast,  long  ago ;  or 
whether  the  accident  (as  he  would  deem  it)  of  the 
blind  man’s  pursuing  the  current  of  his  own  remarks, 
had  done  so  at  the  moment ;  or  he  had  been  impress-  I 


ed  by  the  mere  circumstance  of  the  man  being  blind, 
and,  therefore,  unlike  any  one  with  whom  he  had 
talked  before ;  it  was  impossible  to  tell.  She  tried 
every  means  to  discover,  but  in  vain ;  and  the  prob¬ 
ability  is  that  Barnaby  himself  was  equally  in  the 
dark. 

It  filled  her  with  uneasiness  to  find  him  harping 
on  this  string,  but  all  that  she  could  do  was  to  lead 
him  quickly  to  some  other  subject,  and  to  dismiss  it 
from  his  brain.  To  caution  him  against  their  visit¬ 
or,  to  show  any  fear  or  suspicion  in  reference  to  him, 
would  only  be,  she  feared,  to  increase  that  interest 
with  which  Barnaby  regarded  him,  and  to  strength¬ 
en  his  desire  to  meet  him  once  again.  She  hoped, 
by  plunging  into  the  crowd,  to  rid  herself  of  her 
terrible  pursuer,  and  then,  by  journeyiug  to  a  dis¬ 
tance  and  observing  increased  caution,  if  that  were 
possible,  to  live  again  unknown,  in  secrecy  and  peace. 

They  reached,  in  course  of  time,  their  halfrng- 
place  within  ten  miles  of  London,  and  lay  there  for 
the  night,  after  bargaining  to  be  carried  on  for  a 
trifle  next  day,  in  a  light  van  which  was  returning 
empty,  and  was  to  start  at  five  o’clock  in  the  morn¬ 
ing.  The  driver  was  punctual,  the  road  good — save 
for  the  dust,  the  weather  being  very  hot  aud  dry — 
and  at  seven  in  the  forenoon  of  Friday  the  second 
of  June,  one  thousand  seven  hundred  and  eighty, 
they  alighted  at  the  foot  of  Westminster  Bridge, 
bade  their  conductor  farewell,  and  stood  alone,  to¬ 
gether,  on  the  scorcliiug  pavement.  For  the  fresh¬ 
ness  which  night  sheds  upon  such  busy  thorough¬ 
fares  had  already  departed,  and  the  sun  was  shining 
with  uncommon  lustre. 

. - »- - 

CHAPTER  XL VIII. 

I  TNCERTAIN  where  to  go  next,  and  bewildered 
U  by  the  crowd  of  people  who  were  already  astir, 
they  sat  down  in  one  of  the  recesses  on  the  bridge, 
to  rest.  They  soon  became  aware  that  the  stream  of 
life  was  all  pouring  one  way,  and  that  a  vast  throng 
of  persons  were  crossing  the  river  from  the  Middle¬ 
sex  to  the  Surrey  shore,  in  unusual  haste  and  evi¬ 
dent  excitement.  They  were,  for  the  most  part,  in 
knots  of  two  or  three,  or  sometimes  half  a  dozen  ; 

.  they  spoke  little  together — many  of  them  were  quite 
silent ;  and  hurried  on  as  if  they  had  one  absorbing 
object  in  view,  which  was  common  to  them  all. 

They  were  surprised  to  see  that  nearly  every  man 
in  this  great  concourse,  which  still  came  pouring 
past,  without  slackening  in  the  least,  wore  in  his 
hat  a  blue  cockade ;  and  that  the  chance  passengers 
who  were  not  so  decorated,  appeared  timidly  anx¬ 
ious  to  escape  observation  or  attack,  and  gave  them 
the  wall  as  if  they  would  conciliate  them.  This, 
however,  was  natural  enough,  considering  their  in¬ 
feriority  in  point  of  numbers ;  for  the  proportion  of 
those  who  wore  blue  cockades,  to  those  who  were 
dressed  as  usual,  was  at  least  forty  or  fifty  to  one. 
There  was  no  quarreling,  however :  the  blue  cock¬ 
ades  went  swarming  on,  passing  each  other  when 
they  could,  and  making  all  the  speed  that  was  pos¬ 
sible  in  such  a  multitude;  and  exchanged  nothing 
more  than  looks,  and  very  often  not  even  those,  with 
such  of  the  passers-by  as  were  not  of  their  number. 


BARNABY  MOUNTS  THE  BLUE  COCKADE. 


155 


At  first,  the  current  of  people  had  been  confined 
to  the  two  pathways,  and  hut  a  few  more  eager 
stragglers  kept  the  road.  But  after  half  an  hour 
or  so,  the  passage  was  completely  blocked  up  by  the 
great  press,  which,  being  now  closely  wedged  to¬ 
gether,  and  impeded  by  the  carts  and  coaches  it  en¬ 
countered,  moved  hut  slowly,  and  was  sometimes  at 
a  stand  for  five  or  ten  minutes  together. 

After  the  lapse  of  nearly  two  hours,  the  numbers 
begau  to  diminish  visibly,  and  gradually  dwindling 
away,  by  little  and  little,  left  the  bridge  quite  clear, 
save  that,  now  and  then,  some  hot  and  dusty  man, 
with  the  cockade  in  his  hat,  and  his  coat  thrown 
over  his  shoulder,  went  panting  by,  fearful  of  being 
too  late,  or  stopped  to  ask  which  way  his  friends 
had  taken,  and  being  directed,  hastened  on  again 
like  one  refreshed.  In  this  comparative  solitude, 
which  seemed  quite  strange  and  novel  after  the  late 
crowd,  the  widow  had  for  the  first  time  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  of  inquiring  of  an  old  man  who  came  and  sat 
beside  them,  what  was  the  meaning  of  that  great 
assemblage. 

“  Why,  where  have  you  come  from,”  he  returned, 
“  that  you  haven’t  heard  of  Lord  George  Gordon’s 
great  association  ?  This  is  the  day  that  he  presents 
the  petition  against  the  Catholics,  God  bless  him !” 

“  What  have  all  these  men  to  do  with  that  ?”  she  said. 

“  What  have  they  to  do  with  it !”  the  old  man  re¬ 
plied.  “  Why,  how  you  talk!  Don’t  you  know  his 
lordship  has  declared  he  won’t  present  it  to  the 
'house  at  all,  unless  it  is  attended  to  the  door  by 
forty  thousand  good  and  true  men  at  least  ?  There’s 
a  crowd  for  you !” 

“A  crowd  indeed!”  said  Barnaby.  “Do  you  hear 
that,  mother !” 

“And  they’re  mustering  yonder,  as  I  am  told,”  re¬ 
sumed  the  old  man,  “  nigh  upon  a  hundred  thousand 
strong.  Ah !  Let  Lord  George  alone.  He  knows 
his  power.  There’ll  be  a  good  many  faces  inside 
them  three  windows  over  there,”  and  he  pointed  to 
where  the  House  of  Commons  overlooked  the  river, 
“that’ll  turn  pale  when  good  Lord  George  gets  up 
this  afternoon,  and  with  reason  too !  Ay,  ay.  Let 
his  lordship  alone.  Let  him  alone.  He  knows!” 
And  so,  with  much  mumbling  and  chuckling  and 
shaking  of  his  forefinger,  he  rose,  with  the  assistance 
of  his  stick,  and  tottered  off. 

“Mother!”  said  Barnaby,  “that’s  a  brave  crowd 
he  talks  of.  Come !” 

“  Not  to  join  it !”  cried  his  mother. 

“  Yes,  yes,”  he  answered,  plucking  at  her  sleeve. 
“  Why  not  ?  Come !” 

“You  don’t  know,”  she  urged,  “what  mischief 
they  may  do,  where  they  may  lead  you,  what  their 
meaning  is.  Dear  Barnaby,  for  my  sake — ” 

“  For  your  sake !”  he  cried,  patting  her  hand. 
“Well!  It  is  for  your  sake,  mother.  You  remem¬ 
ber  wrhat  the  blind  man  said  about  the  gold.  Here’s 
a  brave  crowd !  Come !  Or  wrait  till  I  come  back 
— yes,  yes,  wait  here.” 

She  tried  with  all  the  earnestness  her  fears  en¬ 
gendered,  to  turn  him  from  his  purpose,  but  in  vain. 
He  was  stooping  down  to  buckle  on  his  shoe,  when 
a  hackney-coach  passed  them  rather  quickly,  and  a 
voice  inside  called  to  the  driver  to  stop. 

“  Young  man,”  said  a  voice  within. 


“Who’s  that?”  cried  Barnaby,  looking  up. 

“  Do  you  wear  this  ornament  ?”  returned  the 
stranger,  holding  out  a  blue  cockade. 

“In  Heaven’s  name,  no.  Pray  do  not  give  it 
him !”  exclaimed  the  widow. 

“  Speak  for  yourself,  woman,”  said  the  man  with¬ 
in  the  coach,  coldly.  “  Leave  the  young  man  to  his 
choice;  he’s  old  enough  to  make  it,  and  to  snap 
your  apron-strings.  He  knows,  without  your  tell¬ 
ing,  whether  he  wears  the  sign  of  a  loyal  English¬ 
man  or  not.” 

Barnaby,  trembling  with  impatience,  cried,  “Yes! 
yes,  yes  I  do,”  as  he  had  cried  a  dozen  times  already. 
The  man  threw  him  a  cockade,  and  crying,  “  Make 
haste  to  St.  George’s  Fields,”  ordered  the  coachman 
to  drive  on  fast,  and  left  them. 

With  hands  that  trembled  with  his  eagerness  to 
fix  the  bauble  in  his  hat,  Barnaby  was  adjusting  it 
as  he  best  could,  and  hurriedly  replying  to  the  tears 
and  entreaties  of  his  mother,  when  two  gentlemen 
passed  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  way.  Observing 
them,  and  seeing  how  Barnaby  was  occupied,  they 
stopped,  whispered  together  for  an  instant,  turned 
back,  and  came  over  to  them. 

“  Why  are  you  sitting  here  ?”  said  one  of  them, 
who  was  dressed  in  a  plain  suit  of  black,  wore  long, 
lank  hair,  and  carried  a  great  cane.  “  Why  have 
you  not  gone  with  the  rest  ?” 

“I  am  going,  sir,”  replied  Barnaby,  finishing  his 
task,  and  putting  his  hat  oil  with  an  air  of  pride. 
“  I  shall  be  there  directly.” 

“Say ‘my  lord,’ young  man,  when  his  lordship 
does  you  the  honor  of  speaking  to  you,”  said  the 
second  gentleman,  mildly.  “If  you  don’t  know 
Lord  George  Gordon  when  you  see  him,  it’s  high 
time  you  should.” 

“  Nay,  Gashford,”  said  Lord  George,  as  Barnaby 
pulled  off  his  hat  again  aud  made  him  a  low  bow, 
“  it’s  no  great  matter  on  a  day  like  this,  which  ev¬ 
ery  Englishman  will  remember  with  delight  and 
pride.  Put  on  your  hat,  friend,  and  follow  us,  for 
you  lag  behind,  aud  are  late.  It’s  past  ten  now. 
Didn’t  you  know  that  the  hour  for  assembling  was 
ten  o’clock  ?” 

Barnaby  shook  his  head,  and  looked  vacantly 
from  one  to  the  other. 

“  You  might  have  known  it,  friend,”  said  Gash- 
ford,  “  it  was  perfectly  understood.  How  came  yon 
to  be  so  ill-informed  ?” 

“  He  can  not  tell  you,  sir,”  the  widow  interposed. 
“  It’s  of  no  use  to  ask  him.  We  are  but  this  morn¬ 
ing  come  from  a  long  distance  in  the  country,  and 
know  nothing  of  these  matters.” 

“  The  cause  has  taken  a  deep  root,  and  has  spread 
its  branches  far  and  wide,”  said  Lord  George  to  his 
secretary.  “  This  is  a  pleasant  hearing.  1  thank 
Heaven  for  it !” 

“  Amen  !”  cried  Gashford,  with  a  solemn  face. 

“  You  do  not  understand  me,  my  lord,”  said  the 
widow.  “  Pardon  me,  but  you  cruelly  mistake  my 
meaning.  We  know  nothing  of  these  matters.  We 
have  no  desire  or  right  to  join  in  what  yon  are 
about  to  do.  This  is  my  son,  my  poor  affiicted  son, 
dearer  to  me  than  my  own  life.  In  mercy’s  name, 
my  lord,  go  your  way  alone,  aud  do  not  tempt  him 
into  danger !” 


156 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“My  good  woman”  said  Gashford,  “  liow  can  you  ! 
Dear  me !  What  do  you  meau  by  tempting,  and 
by  danger?  Do  you  think  liis  lordship  is  a  roaring 
lion, going  about  and  seeking  whom  he  may  devour? 
God  bless  me !” 

“  No,  no,  my  lord,  forgive  me,”  implored  the  wid- 
ow,  laying  both  her  hands  upon  his  breast,  and 
scarcely  knowing  what  she  did  or  said,  in  the  ear¬ 
nestness  of  her  supplication^  “  but  there  are  reasons 
why  you  should  hear  my  earnest,  mother’s  prayer, 
and  leave  my  son  with  me.  Oh,  do.  He  is  not  in 
his  right  senses,  he  is  not,  indeed !” 

“It  is  a  bad  sign  of  the  wickedness  of  these  times,” 


“Not  one,”  replied  the  secretary;  “in  that  case, 
the  greater  the  zeal,  the  truth,  and  talent ;  the  more 
direct  the  call  from  above,  the  clearer  would  be  the 
maduess.  With  regard  to  this  young  man,  my  lord,” 
he  added,  with  a  lip  that  slightly  curled  as  he  look¬ 
ed  at  Barnaby,  who  stood  twirling  his  hat,  and 
stealthily  beckoning  them  to  come  away,  “  he  is  as 
sensible  and  self-possessed  as  any  one  I  ever  saw.” 

“And  you  desire  to  make  one  of  this  great  body?” 
said  Lord  George,  addressing  him ;  “  and  intended  to 
make  one,  did  you  ?” 

“Yes  —  yes,”  said  Barnaby,  with  sparkling  eyes. 
“To  be  sure  I  did !  I  told  her  so  myself.” 


said  Lord  George,  evading  her  touch,  and  coloring 
deeply,  “  that  those  who  cling  to  the  truth  and  sup¬ 
port  the  right  cause,  are  set  down  as  mad.  Have 
you  the  heart  to  say  this  of  your  own  son,  unnatural 
mother  ?” 

“  I  am  astonished  at  you !”  said  Gashford,  with  a 
kind  of  meek  severity.  “  This  is  a  very  sad  picture 
of  female  depravity.” 

“He  has  surely  no  appearance,” said  Lord  George, 
glancing  at  Barnaby,  and  whispering  iu  his  secreta¬ 
ry’s  ear,  “of  being  deranged?  And  even  if  he  had, 
we  must  not  construe  any  trifling  peculiarity  into 
madness.  Which  of  us” — and  here  he  turned  red 
again — “would  be  safe,  if  that  were  made  the  law!” 


“  I  see,”  replied  Lord  George,  with  a  reproachful 
glance  at  the  unhappy  mother.  “I  thought  so. 
Follow  me  and  this  gentleman,  and  you  shall  have 
your  wish.” 

Barnaby  kissed  his  mother  tenderly  on  the  cheek, 
and  bidding  her  be  of  good  cheer,  for  their  fortunes 
were  both  made  now,  did  as  he  was  desired.  She, 
poor  woman,  followed  too — with  how  much  fear  and 
grief  it  would  be  hard  to  tell. 

They  passed  quickly  through  the  Bridge  Road, 
where  the  shops  were  all  shut  up  (for  the  passage 
of  the  great  crowd  and  the  expectation  of  their  re¬ 
turn  had  alarmed  the  tradesmen  for  their  goods  and 
windows),  and  where,  in  the  upper  stories,  all  the 


THE  HOB  IN  ST.  GEORGE’S  FIELDS. 


157 


inhabitants  were  congregated,  looking  down  into 
the  street  below  with  faces  variously  expressive 
of  alarm,  of  interest,  expectancy  and  indignation. 
Some  of  these  applauded,  and  some  hissed ;  but  re¬ 
gardless  of  these  interruptions  —  for  the  noise  of 
a  vast  congregation  of  people  at  a  little  distance 
sounded  in  his  ears  like  the  roaring  of  the  sea — Lord 
George  Gordon  quickened  his  pace,  and  presently  ar¬ 
rived  before  St.  George’s  Fields. 

They  were  really  fields  at  that  time,  and  of  con¬ 
siderable  extent.  Here  an  immense  multitude  was 
collected,  bearing  flags  of  various  kinds  and  sizes, 
but  all  of  the  same  color — blue,  like  the  cockades — 
some  sections  marching  to  and  fro  in  military  array, 
and  others  drawn  up  in  circles,  squares,  and  lines. 
A  large  portion,  both  of  the  bodies  which  paraded 
the  ground,  and  of  those  which  remained  stationary, 
were  occupied  in  singing  hymns  or  psalms.  With 
whomsoever  this  originated,  it  was  well  done ;  for 
the  sound  of  so  many  thousand  voices  in  the  air 
must  have  stirred  the  heart  of  any  man  within  him, 
and  could  not  fail  to  have  a  wonderful  effect  upon 
enthusiasts,  however  mistaken. 

Scouts  had  been  posted  in  advance  of  the  great 
body,  to  give  notice  of  their  leader’s  coming.  These 
falling  back,  the  word  was  quickly  passed  through 
the  whole  host,  and  for  a  short  interval  there  ensued 
a  profound  and  death-like  silence,  during  which  the 
mass  was  so  still  and  quiet,  that  the  fluttering  of  a 
banner  caught  the  eye  and  became  a  circumstance 
of  note.  Then  they  burst  into  a  tremendous  shout, 
into  another,  and  another ;  and  the  air  seemed  rent 
and  shaken,  as  if  by  the  discharge  of  cannon. 

“  Gashford !”  cried  Lord  George,  pressing  his  sec¬ 
retary’s  arm  tight  within  his  own,  and  speaking 
with  as  much  emotion  in  his  voice  as  in  his  altered 
face,  “  I  am  called  indeed,  now.  I  feel  and  know  it. 
I  am  the  leader  of  a  host.  If  they  summoned  me 
at  this  moment  with  one  voice  to  lead  them  on  to 
death,  I’d  do  it —  Yes,  and  fall  first  myself!” 

“  It  is  a  proud  sight,”  said  the  secretary.  “  It  is 
a  noble  day  for  England,  and  for  the  great  cause 
throughout  the  world.  Such  homage,  my  lord,  as  I, 
an  humble  but  devoted  man,  can  render — ” 

“  What  are  you  doing  ?”  cried  his  master,  catch¬ 
ing  him  by  both  hands ;  for  he  had  made  a  show  of 
kneeling  at  his  feet.  “  Do  not  unfit  me,  dear  Gash- 
ford,  for  the  solemn  duty  of  this  glorious  day” — 
the  tears  stood  in  the  eyes  of  the  poor  gentleman 
as  he  said  the  words. — “  Let  us  go  among  them  ;  we 
have  to  find  a  place  in  some  division  for  this  new  re¬ 
cruit — give  me  your  hand.” 

Gashford  slid  his  cold  insidious  palm  into  his  mas¬ 
ter’s  grasp,  and  so,  hand  in  hand,  and  followed  still 
by  Barnaby  and  by  his  mother  too,  they  mingled 
with  the  concourse. 

They  had  by  this  time  taken  to  their  singing  again, 
and  as  their  leader  passed  between  their  ranks,  they 
raised  their  voices  to  their  utmost.  Many  of  those 
who  were  banded  together  to  support  the  religion 
of  their  country  even  unto  death  had  never  heard  a 
hymn  or  psalm  in  all  their  lives.  But  these  fellows 
having,  for  the  most  part  strong  lungs,  and  being 
naturally  fond  of  singing,  chanted  any  ribaldry  or 
nonsense  that  occurred  to  them,  feeling  pretty  cer¬ 
tain  that  it  would  not  be  detected  in  the  general 


chorus,  and  not  caring  much  if  it  were.  Many  of 
these  voluntaries  were  sung  under  the  very  nose  of 
Lord  George  Gordon,  who,  quite  unconscious  of  their 
burden,  passed  on  with  his  usual  stiff  and  solemn 
deportment,  very  much  edified  and  delighted  by  the 
pious  conduct  of  his  followers. 

So  they  went  on  and  on,  up  this  line,  down  that, 
round  the  exterior  of  this  circle,  and  on  every  side 
of  that  hollow  square ;  and  still  there  were  lines,  and 
squares,  and  circles  out  of  number  to  review.  The 
day  being  now  intensely  hot,  and  the  sun  striking 
down  his  fiercest  rays  upon  the  field,  those  who  car¬ 
ried  heavy  banners  began  to  grow  faint  and  weary  ; 
most  of  the  number  .assembled  were  fain  to  pull  off 
their  neck-cloths,  and  throw  their  coats  and  waist¬ 
coats  open ;  and  some,  toward  the  centre,  quite  over¬ 
powered  by  the  excessive  heat,  which  was  of  course 
rendered  more  unendurable  by  the  multitude  around 
them,  lay  down  upon  the  grass,  and  offered  all  they 
had  about  them  for  a  drink  of  water.  Still  no  man 
left  the  ground,  not  even  of  those  who  were  so  dis¬ 
tressed;  still  Lord  George,  streaming  from  every 
pore,  went  on  with  Gashford ;  and  still  Barnaby  and 
his  mother  followed  close  behind  them. 

They  had  arrived  at  the  top  of  a  long  line  of  some 
eight  hundred  men  in  single  file,  and  Lord  George 
had  turned  his  head  to  look  back,  when  a  loud  cry 
of  recognition — in  that  peculiar  and  half-stifled  tone 
which  a  voice  has,  when  it  is  raised  in  the  open  air 
and  in  the  midst  of  a  great  concourse  of  persons — 
was  heard,  and  a  man  stepped  with  a  shout  of  laugh¬ 
ter  from  the  rank,  and  smote  Barnaby  on  the  shoul¬ 
ders  with  his  heavy  baud. 

“  How  now !”  he  cried.  “  Barnaby  Rudge !  Why, 
where  have  you  been  hidingfor  these  hundred  years  ?” 

Barnaby  had  been  thinking  within  himself  that 
the  smell  of  the  trodden  grass  brought  back  his  old 
days  at  cricket,  when  he  was  a  young  boy  and  play¬ 
ed  on  Chigwell  Green.  Confused  by  this  sudden 
and  boisterous  address,  he  stared  in  a  bewildered 
manner  at  the  man,  and  could  scarcely  say  “  What ! 
Hugh  !” 

“  Hugh  !”  echoed  the  other  ;  “  ay,  Hugh — Maypole 
Hugh  !  You  remember  my  dog  ?  He’s  alive  now, 
and  will  know  you,  I  warrant.  What,  you  wear  the 
color,  do  you  ?  Well  done  !  Ha,  ha,  ha !’ 

“You  know  this  young  man,  I  see,”  said  Lord 
George. 

“  Know  him,  my  lord !  as  well  as  I  know  my  own 
right  hand.  My  captain  knows  him.  We  all  know 
him.” 

“  Will  you  take  him  into  your  division  ?” 

“It  hasn’t  in  it  a  better,  nor  a  nimbler,  nor  a 
more  active  man,  than  Barnaby  Rudge,”  said  Hugh. 
“  Show  me  the  man  who  says  it  has!  Fall  in,  Bar- 
uaby.  He  shall  march,  my  lord,  between  me  and 
Dennis  ;  and  he  shall  carry,”  he  added,  taking  a  flag 
from  the  hand  of  a  tired  man  who  tendered  it,  “  the 
gayest  silken  streamer  in  this  valiant  army.” 

ei  In  the  name  of  God,  no !”  shrieked  the  widow, 
darting  forward.  “Barnaby — my  lord — see — he’ll 
come  back — Barnaby — Barnaby  !” 

“Women  in  the  field!”  cried  Hugh,  stepping  be¬ 
tween  them,  and  holding  her  off.  “  Halloo !  My 
captain  there !” 

“What’s  the  matter  here  ?”  cried  Simon  Tappertit, 


158 


BARNABY  RUDGE. 


bustling  up  iu  a  great  beat.  “Do  you  call  this 
order  ?” 

“  Nothing  like  it,  captain,”  answered  Hugh,  still 
holding:  her  back  with  his  outstretched  hand.  “It’s 
against  all  orders.  Ladies  are  carrying  off  our  gal¬ 
lant  soldiers  from  their  duty.  The  word  of  command, 
captain !  They’re  filing  off  the  ground.  Quick !” 

“  Close !”  cried  Simon,  with  the  whole  power  of 
his  lungs.  “  Form !  March !” 

She  was  thrown  to  the  ground;  the  whole  field 
was  in  motion  ;  Barnaby  was  whirled  away  into  the 
heart  of  a  dense  mass  of  men,  and  she  saw  him  no 
more. 

- »- - 

CHAPTER  XLIX. 

HE  mob  had  been  divided  from  its  first  assem¬ 
blage  into  four  divisions :  the  London,  the  West¬ 
minster,  the  Southwark,  and  the  Scotch.  Each  of 
these  divisions  being  subdivided  into  various  bodies, 
and  these  bodies  being  drawn  up  in  various  forms 
and  figures,  the  general  arrangement  was,  except  to 
the  few  chiefs  and  leaders,  as  unintelligible  as  the 
plan  of  a  great  battle  to  the  meanest  soldier  in  the 
field.  It  was  not  without  its  method,  however ;  for, 
in  a  very  short  space  of  time  after  being  put  in  mo¬ 
tion,  the  crowd  had  resolved  itself  into  three  great 
parties,  and  were  prepared,  as  had  been  arranged,  to 
cross  the  river  by  different  bridges,  and  make  for  the 
House  of  Commons  in  separate  detachments. 

At  the  head  of  that  division  which  had  Westmin¬ 
ster  Bridge  for  its  approach  to  the  scene  of  action, 
Lord  George  Gordon  took  his  post,  with  Gashford  at 
his  right  hand,  and  sundry  ruffians,  of  most  unprom¬ 
ising  appearance,  forming  a  kind  of  staff  about  him. 
The  conduct  of  a  second  party,  whose  route  lay  by 
Blackfriars,  was  intrusted  to  a  committee  of  manage¬ 
ment,  including  perhaps  a  dozen  men ;  while  the 
third,  which  was  to  go  by  London  Bridge,  and  through 
the  main  streets,  iu  order  that  their  numbers  and 
their  serious  intentions  might  be  the  better  known 
and  appreciated  by  the  citizens,  were  led  by  Simon 
Tappertit  (assisted  by  a  few  subalterns,  selected  from 
the  Brotherhood  of  United  Ball- dogs),  Dennis  the 
hangman,  Hugh,  and  some  others. 

The  word  of  command  being  given,  each  of  these 
great  bodies  took  the  road  assigned  to  it,  and  depart¬ 
ed  on  its  way,  in  perfect  order  and  profound  silence. 
That  which  went  through  the  City  greatly  exceeded 
the  others  in  number,  and  was  of  such  prodigious  ex¬ 
tent  that  when  the  rear  began  to  move,  the  front  was 
nearly  four  miles  in  advance,  notwithstanding  that 
the  men  marched  three  abreast  and  followed  very 
close  upon  each  other. 

At  the  head  of  this  party,  in  the  place  where  Hugh, 
in  the  madness  of  his  humor,  had  stationed  him,  and 
walking  between  that  dangerous  companion  and  the 
hangman,  went  Barnaby ;  as  many  a  man  among  the 
thousands  who  looked  on  that  day  afterward  remem¬ 
bered  well.  Forgetful  of  all  other  things  in  the  ec¬ 
stasy  of  the  moment,  his  face  flushed  and  his  eyes 
sparkling  with  delight,  heedless  of  the  weight  of  the 
great  banner  he  carried,  and  mindful  only  of  its  flash¬ 
ing  in  the  sun  and  rustling  in  the  summer  breeze,  on 
he  went,  proud,  happy,  elated  past  all  telling ;  the 


only  light-hearted,  undesigning  creature,  in  the  whole 
assembly. 

“  What  do  you  think  of  this  ?”  asked  Hugh,  as 
they  passed  through  the  crowded  streets,  and  looked 
up  at  the  windows,  which  were  thronged  with  spec¬ 
tators.  “  They  have  all  turned  out  to  see  our  flags 
and  streamers  ?  Eh,  Barnaby  ?  Why,  Barnaby’s  the 
greatest  man  of  all  the  pack !  His  flag’s  the  largest 
of  the  lot,  the  brightest  too.  There’s  nothing  in  the 
show  like  Barnaby.  All  eyes  are  turned  on  him. 
Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

“  Don’t  make  that  din,  brother,”  growled  the 
hangman,  glancing  with  no  very  approving  eyes  at 
Barnaby  as  he  spoke :  “  I  hope  he  don’t  think  there’s 
nothing  to  be  done,  but  carrying  that  there  piece  of 
blue  rag,  like  a  boy  at  a  breaking  up.  You’re  ready 
for  action  I  hope,  eh  ?  You,  I  mean,”  he  added,  nudg¬ 
ing  Barnaby  roughly  with  his  elbow.  “  What  are 
you  staring  at  ?  Why  don’t  you  speak  ?” 

Barnaby  had  been  gazing  at  his  flag,  and  looked 
vacantly  from  his  questioner  to  Hugh. 

“  He  don’t  understand  your  way,”  said  the  latter. 
“  Here,  I’ll  explain  it  to  him.  Barnaby,  old  boy,  at¬ 
tend  to  me.” 

“I’ll  attend,”  said  Barnaby,  looking  anxiously 
round ;  “  but  I  wish  I  could  see  her  somewhere.” 

“  See  who  ?”  demanded  Dennis,  in  a  gruff  tone. 
“  You  an’t  in  love,  I  hope,  brother  ?  That  an’t  the 
sort  of  thing  for  us,  you  know.  We  mustn’t  have 
no  love  here.” 

“  She  would  be  proud  indeed  to  see  me  now — eh, 
Hugh  ?”  said  Barnaby.  “  Wouldn’t  it  make  her  glad 
to  see  me  at  the  head  of  this  large  show  ?  She’d  cry 
for  joy ;  I  know  she  would.  Where  can  she  be  ?  She 
never  sees  me  at  my  best,  and  what  do  I  care  to  be 
gay  and  fine  if  she’s  not  by  ?” 

“  Why,  what  palaver ’s  this  ?”  asked  Mr.  Dennis, 
with  supreme  disdain.  “We  an’t  got  no  sentiment¬ 
al  members  among  us,  I  hope.” 

“  Don’t  be  uneasy,  brother,”  cried  Hugh ;  ■“  he’s 
only  talking  of  his  mother.” 

“  Of  his  what  ?”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  with  a  strong 
oath. 

“  His  mother.” 

“And  have  I  combined  myself  with  this  here  sec¬ 
tion,  and  turned  out  on  this  here  memorable  day,  to 
hear  men  talk  about  their  mothers!”  growled  Mr. 
Dennis,  with  extreme  disgust.  “The  notion  of  a 
man’s  sweetheart’s  bad  enough ;  but  a  man’s  moth¬ 
er!” — and  here  his  disgust  was  so  extreme  that  he 
spat  upon  the  ground,  and  could  say  no  more. 

“  Barnaby’s  right,”  cried  Hugh,  with  a  grin,  “  and 
I  say  it.  Lookee,  bold  lad.  If  she’s  not  here  to  see, 
it’s  because  I’ve  provided  for  her,  and  sent  half  a 
dozen  gentlemen,  every  one  of  ’em  with  a  blue  flag 
(but  not  half  as  fine  as  yours),  to  take  her,  in  state, 
to  a  grand  house  all  hung  round  with  gold  and  silver 
banners,  and  every  thing  else  you  please,  where  she’ll 
wait  till  you  come,  and  want  for  nothing.” 

“Ay!”  said  Barnaby,  his  face  beaming  with  de¬ 
light:  “have  you  indeed?  That’s  a  good  hearing. 
That’s  fine !  Kind  Hugh !” 

“  But  nothing  to  what  will  come,  bless  you,”  re¬ 
torted  Hugh,  with  a  wink  at  Dennis,  who  regarded 
his  new  companion  in  arms  with  great  astonish¬ 
ment. 


THE  UPROAR  AT  WESTMINSTER. 


159 


“No,  indeed?”  cried  Barnaby. 

“Nothing  at  all,”  said  Hugh.  “Money,  cocked 
hats  and  feathers,  red  coats  and  gold  lace ;  all  the 
fine  things  there  are,  ever  were,  or  will  be,  will  be¬ 
long  to  us  if  we  are  true  to  that  noble  gentleman — 
the  best  man  in  the  world — carry  our  flags  for  a  few 
days,  and  keep  ’em  safe.  That’s  all  we’ve  got  to  do.” 

“  Is  that  all  f”  cried  Barnaby  with  glistening  eyes, 
as  he  clutched  his  pole  the  tighter;  “  I  warrant  you 
I  keep  this  one  safe,  then.  Yon  have  put  it  in  good 
hands.  You  know  me,  Hugh.  Nobody  shall  wrest 
this  flag  away.” 

“  Well  said !”  cried  Hugh.  “  Ha,  ha  !  Nobly  said ! 
That’s  the  old  stout  Barnaby  that  I  have  climbed 
and  leaped  with  many  and  many  a  day — I  knew  I 
was  not  mistaken  in  Barnaby. — Don’t  you  see,  man,” 
he  added  in  a  whisper,  as  he  slipped  to  the  other  side 
of  Dennis,  “  that  the  lad’s  a  natural,  and  can  be  got 
to  do  any  thing,  if  you  take  him  the  right  way  ?  Let¬ 
ting  alone  the  fun  he  is,  he’s  worth  a  dozen  men  in 
earnest,  as  you’d  find  if  you  tried  a  fall  with  him. 
Leave  him  to  me.  You  shall  soon  see  whether  he’s 
of  use  or  not.” 

Mr.  Dennis  received  these  explanatory  remarks 
with  many  nods  and  winks,  and  softened  his  behav¬ 
ior  toward  Barnaby  from  that  moment.  Hugh,  lay¬ 
ing  his  finger  on  his  nose,  stepped  back  into  his 
former  place,  and  they  proceeded  in  silence. 

It  was  between  two  and  three  o’clock  in  the  af¬ 
ternoon  when  the  three  great  parties  met  at  West¬ 
minster,  and,  uniting  into  one  huge  mass,  raised  a 
tremendous  shout.  This  was  not  only  done  in  token 
of  their  presence,  but  as  a  signal  to  those  on  whom  the 
task  devolved  that  it  was  time  to  take  possession  of 
the  lobbies  of  both  Houses,  and  of  the  various  ave¬ 
nues  of  approach,  and  of  the  gallery  stairs.  To  the 
last-named  place,  Hugh  and  Dennis,  still  with  their 
pupil  between  them,  rushed  straightway,  Barnaby 
having  given  his  flag  into  the  hands  of  one  of  their 
own  party,  who  kept  them  at  the  outer  door.  Their 
followers  pressing  on  behind,  they  were  borne  as  on 
a  great  wave  to  the  very  doors  of  the  gallery,  whence 
it  was  impossible  to  retreat,  even  if  they  had  been  so 
inclined,  by  reason  of  the  throng  which  choked  up 
the  passages.  It  is  a  familiar  expression  in  describ¬ 
ing  a  great  crowd,  that  a  person  might  have  walked 
upon  the  people’s  heads.  In  this  case  it  was  actu¬ 
ally  done ;  for  a  boy  who  had  by  some  means  got 
among  the  concourse,  and  was  in  imminent  danger 
of  sufiocation,  climbed  to  the  shoulders  of  a  man 
beside  him  and  walked  upon  the  people’s  hats  and 
heads  into  the  open  street ;  traversing  in  his  passage 
the  whole  length  of  two  staircases  and  a  long  gal¬ 
lery.  Nor  was  the  swarm  without  less  dense ;  for  a 
basket  which  had  been  tossed  into  the  crowd,  was 
jerked  from  head  to  head,  and  shoulder  to  shoulder, 
and  went  spinning  and  whirling  on  above  them,  un¬ 
til  it  was  lost  to  view,  without  ever  once  falling  in 
among  them  or  coming  near  the  ground. 

Through  this  vast  throng,  sprinkled  doubtless  here 
and  there  with  honest  zealots,  but  composed  for  the 
most  part  of  the  very  scum  and  refuse  of  London, 
whose  growth  was  fostered  by  bad  criminal  laws, 
bad  prison  regulations,  and  the  worst  conceivable 
police,  such  of  the  members  of  both  Houses  of  Par¬ 
liament  as  had  not  taken  the  precaution  to  be  al¬ 


ready  at  their  posts,  were  compelled  to  fight  and 
force  their  way.  Their  carriages  were  stopped  and 
broken ;  the  wheels^wrenched  off ;  the  glasses  shiv¬ 
ered  to  atoms ;  the  panels  beaten  in ;  drivers,  foot¬ 
men,  and  masters,  pulled  from  their  seats  and  rolled 
in  the  mud.  Lords,  commoners,  and  reverend  bish¬ 
ops,  with  little  distinction  of  person  or  party,  were 
kicked  and  pinched  and  hustled ;  passed  from  hand 
to  hand  through  various  stages  of  ill  usage ;  and  sent 
to  their  fellow -senators  at  last  with  their  clothes 
hanging  in  ribbons  about  them,  their  bagwigs  torn 
ofl",  themselves  speechless  and  breathless,  and  their 
persons  covered  with  the  powder  which  had  been 
cuffed  and  beaten  out  of  their  hair.  One  lord  was 
so  long  in  the  hands  of  the  populace,  that  the  Peers 
as  a  body  resolved  to  sally  forth  and  rescue  him,  and 
were  in  the  act  of  doing  so,  when  he  happily  appear¬ 
ed  among  them  covered  with  dirt  and  bruises,  and 
hardly  to  be  recognized  by  those  who  knew  him 
best.  The  noise  and  uproar  were  on  the  increase 
every  moment.  The  air  was  filled  with  execrations, 
hoots,  and  howlings.  The  mob  raged  and  roared, 
like  a  mad  monster  as  it  was,  unceasingly,  and  each 
new  outrage  served  to  swell  its  fury. 

Within  doors  matters  were  even  yet  more  threat¬ 
ening.  Lord  George — preceded  by  a  man  who  car¬ 
ried  the  immense  petition  on  a  porter’s  knot  through 
the  lobby  to  the  door  of  the  House  of  Commons, 
where  it  was  received  by  two  officers  of  the  House 
who  rolled  it  up  to  the  table  ready  for  presentation 
■ — had  taken  his  seat  at  an  early  hour,  before  the 
Speaker  went  to  prayers.  His  followers  pouring  in 
at  the  same  time,  the  lobby  and  all  the  avenues  were 
immediately  filled,  as  we  have  seen.  Thus  the  mem¬ 
bers  were  not  only  attacked  in  their  passage  through 
the  streets,  but  were  set  upon  within  the  very  walls 
of  Parliament ;  while  the  tumult,  both  within  and 
without,  was  so  great,  that  those  who  attempted  to 
speak  could  scarcely  hear  their  own  voices,  far  less 
consult  upon  the  course  it  would  be  wise  to  take  in 
such  extremity,  or  animate  each  other  to  dignified 
and  firm  resistance.  So  sure  as  any  member,  just 
arrived,  with  dress  disordered  and  disheveled  hair, 
came  struggling  through  the  crowd  in  the  lobby,  it 
yelled  and  screamed  in  triumph ;  and  when  the  door 
of  the  House,  partially  and  cautiously  opened  by 
those  within  for  his  admission,  gave  them  a  moment¬ 
ary  glimpse  of  the  interior,  they  grew  more  wild  and 
savage,  like  beasts  at  the  sight  of  prey,  and  made 
a  rush  against  the  portal  which  strained  its  locks 
and  bolts  in  their  staples,  and  shook  the  very  beams. 

The  strangers’  gallery,  which  was  immediately 
above  the  door  of  the  House,  had  been  ordered  to 
be  closed  on  the  first  rumor  of  disturbance,  and  was 
empty  save  that  now  and  then  Lord  George  took 
his  seat  there,  for  the  convenience  of  coming  to  the 
head  of  the  stairs  which  led  to  it,  and  repeating  to 
the  people  what  had  passed  within.  It  was  on  these 
stairs  that  Barnaby,  Hugh,  and  Dennis  were  posted. 
There  were  two  flights,  short,  steep,  and  narrow,  run¬ 
ning  parallel  to  each  other,  and  leading  to  two  lit¬ 
tle  doors  communicating  with  a  low  passage  which 
opened  on  the  gallery.  Between  them  was  a  kind 
of  well,  or  un glazed  sky-light,  for  the  admission  of 
light  and  air  into  the  lobby,  which  might  be  some 
eighteen  or  twenty  feet  below. 


160 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


Upon  one  of  these  little  staircases — not  that  at  the 
head  of  which  Lord  George  appeared  from  time  to 
time,  hut  the  other — Gashford  $tood  with  his  elbow 
on  the  banister,  and  his  cheek  resting  on  his  hand, 
with  his  usual  crafty  aspect.  Whenever  he  varied 
this  attitude  in  the  slightest  degree — so  much  as  by 
the  geutlest  motion  of  his  arm — the  uproar  was  cer- 
taiu  to  increase,  not  merely  there,  but  in  the  lobby 
below ;  from  which  place  no  doubt,  some  man  who 
acted  as  fugleman  to  the  rest  was  constantly  look¬ 
ing  up  and  watching  him. 

“  Order !”  cried  Hugh,  in  a  voice  which  made  it¬ 
self  heard  even  above  the  roar  and  tumult,  as  Lord 
George  appeared  at  the  top  of  the  staircase.  “  News ! 
News  from  my  lord !” 

The  noise  continued,  notwithstanding  his  appear¬ 
ance,  until  Gashford  looked  round.  There  was  si¬ 
lence  immediately — even  among  the  people  in  the 
passages  without,  and  on  the  other  staircases,  who 
could  neither  see  nor  hear,  but  to  whom,  notwith¬ 
standing,  the  signal  was  conveyed  with  marvelous 
rapidity. 

“Gentlemen,”  said  Lord  George,  who  was  very 
pale  and  agitated,  “  we  must  be  firm.  They  talk  of 
delays,  but  we  must  have  no  delays.  They  talk  of 
taking  your  petition  into  consideration  next  Tues¬ 
day,  but  we  must  have  it  considered  now.  Present 
appearances  look  bad  for  our  success,  but  we  must 
succeed,  and  will !” 

“We  must  succeed,  and  will!”  echoed  the  crowd. 
Aud  so  among  their  shouts  and  cheers  and  other 
cries,  he  bowed  to  them  and  retired,  and  presently 
came  back  again.  There  was  another  gesture  from 
Gashford,  aud  a  dead  silence  directly. 

“  I  am  afraid,”  he  said  this  time,  “  that  we  have 
little  reason,  gentlemen,  to  hope  for  any  redress 
from  the  proceedings  of  Parliament.  But  we  must 
redress  our  own  grievances ;  we  must  meet  again ; 
we  must  put  our  trust  in  Providence,  and  it  will 
bless  our  endeavors.” 

This  speech  being  a  little  more  temperate  than 
the  last,  was  not  so  favorably  received.  When  the 
noise  and  exasperation  were  at  their  height,  he  came 
back  once  more,  and  told  them  that  the  alarm  had 
gone  forth  for  many  miles  round;  that  when  the 
King  heard  of  their  assembling  together  in  that 
great  body,  he  had  no  doubt  His  Majesty  would 
send  down  private  orders  to  have  their  wishes  com¬ 
plied  with ;  and — with  the  manner  of  his  speech  as 
childish,  irresolute,  and  uncertain  as  his  matter — 
was  proceeding  in  this  strain,  when  two  gentlemen 
suddenly  appeared  at  the  door  where  he  stood,  and 
pressing  past  him  and  coming  a  step  or  two  lower 
down  upon  the  stairs,  confronted  the  people. 

The  boldness  of  this  action  quite  took  them  by 
surprise.  They  were  not  the  less  disconcerted  when 
one  of  the  gentlemen,  turning  to  Lord  George,  spoke 
thus,  in  a  loud  voice  that  they  might  hear  him  well, 
but  quite  coolly  and  collectedly  : 

“You  may  tell  these  people,  if  you  please,  my 
lord,  that  I  am  General  Conway,  of  whom  they  have 
heard ;  and  that  I  oppose  this  petition,  and  all  their 
proceedings,  and  yours.  I  am  a  soldier,  you  may 
tell  them,  and  I  will  protect  the  freedom  of  this 
place  with  my  sword.  You  see,  my  lord,  that  the 
members  of  this  House  are  all  in  arms  to-day ;  you 


know  that  the  entrance  to  it  is  a  narrow  one ;  you 
can  not  be  ignorant  that  there  are  men  within  these 
walls  who  are  determined  to  defend  that  pass  to  the 
last,  and  before  whom  many  lives  must  fall  if  your 
adherents  i>ersevere.  Have  a  care  what  you  do.” 

“And  my  Lord  George,”  said  the  other  gentleman, 
addressing  him  in  like  manner,  “I  desire  them  to 
hear  this,  from  me — Colonel  Gordon — your  near  re¬ 
lation.  If  a  man  among  this  crowd,  whose  uproar 
strikes  us  deaf,  crosses  the  threshold  of  the  House 
of  Commons,  I  swear  to  run  my  sword  that  moment 
— not  into  his,  but  into  your  body !” 

With  that  they  stepped  back  again,  keeping  their 
faces  toward  the  crowd ;  took  each  an  arm  of  the 
misguided  nobleman ;  drew  him  into  the  passage, 
and  shut  the  door ;  which  they  directly  locked  and 
fastened  on  the  inside. 

This  was  so  quickly  done,  and  the  demeanor  of 
both  gentlemen — who  were  not  young  men  either — 
was  so  gallant  and  resolute,  that  the  crowd  faltered 
and  stared  at  each  other  with  irresolute  aud  timid 
looks.  Many  tried  to  turn  toward  the  door ;  some 
of  the  faintest-hearted  cried  they  had  best  go  back, 
and  called  to  those  behind  to  give  way;  and  the 
panic  and  confusion  were  increasing  rapidly,  when 
Gashford  whispered  Hugh. 

“  What  now !”  Hugh  roared  aloud,  turning  toward 
them,  “Why  go  back?  Where  can  you  do  better 
than  here,  boys  ?  One  good  rush  against  these  doors 
and  one  below  at  the  same  time  will  do  the  busi¬ 
ness.  Rush  on,  then !  As  to  the  door  below,  let 
those  stand  back  who  are  afraid.  Let  those  who 
are  not  afraid  try  who  shall  be  the  first  to  pass  it. 
Here  goes !  Look  out  down  there !” 

Without  the  delay  of  an  instant,  he  threw  him¬ 
self  headlong  over  the  banisters  into  the  lobby  be¬ 
low.  He  had  hardly  touched  the  ground  when  Bar- 
naby  was  at  his  side.  The  chaplain’s  assistant,  and 
some  members  who  were  imploring  the  people  to  re¬ 
tire,  immediately  withdrew ;  and  then,  with  a  great 
shout,  both  crowds  threw  themselves  against  the 
doors  pell-mell,  and  besieged  the  House  in  earnest. 

At  that  moment,  when  a  second  onset  must  have 
brought  them  into  collision  with  those  who  stood 
on  the  defensive  within,  in  which  case  great  loss  of 
life  and  bloodshed  would  inevitably  have  ensued,  the 
hindmost  portion  of  the  crowd  gave  way,  and  the 
rumor  spread  from  mouth  to  mouth  that  a  messen¬ 
ger  had  been  dispatched  by  water  for  the  military, 
who  were  forming  in  the  street.  Fearful  of  sustain¬ 
ing  a  charge  in  the  narrow  passages  in  which  they 
were  so  closely  wedged  together,  the  throng  poured 
out  as  impetuously  as  they  had  flocked  in.  As  the 
whole  stream  turned  at  once,  Barnaby  and  Hugh 
went  with  it :  and  so,  fighting  and  struggling  and 
trampling  on  fallen  men  and  being  trampled  on  in 
turn  themselves,  they  and  the  whole  mass  floated 
by  degrees  into  the  open  street,  where  a  large  de¬ 
tachment  of  the  Guards,  both  horse  and  foot,  came 
hurrying  up,  clearing  the  ground  before  them  so  rap¬ 
idly  that  the  people  seemed  to  melt  away  as  they 
advanced. 

The  word  of  command  to  halt  being  given,  the 
soldiers  formed  across  the  street ;  the  rioters,  breath¬ 
less  and  exhausted  with  their  late  exertions,  formed 
likewise,  though  in  a  very  irregular  and  disorderly 


THE  BIOT  ACT  BEAD. 


161 


manner.  The  commanding  officer  rode  hastily  into 
the  open  space  between  the  two  bodies,  accompanied 
by  a  magistrate  and  an  officer  of  the  House  of  Com¬ 
mons,  for  whose  accommodation  a  couple  of  troopers 
had  hastily  dismounted.  The  Riot  Act  was  read,  but 
not  a  man  stirred. 

In  the  first  rank  of  the  insurgents  Barnaby  and 
Hugh  stood  side  by  side.  Somebody  had  thrust  into 


After  an  ineffectual  attempt  to  make  himself 
heard,  the  magistrate  gave  the  word,  and  the  Horse 
Guards  came  riding  in  among  the  crowd.  But  even 
then  he  galloped  here  and  there,  exhorting  the  peo¬ 
ple  to  disperse ;  and  although  heavy  stones  were 
thrown  at  the  men,  and  some  were  desperately  cut 
and  bruised,  they  had  no  orders  but  to  make  prison¬ 
ers  of  such  of  the  rioters  as  were  the  most  active, 


TUE  POLE  SWEPT  INTO  THE  AIE  ABOVE  THE  PEOPLE’S  HEADS,  AND  THE  MAN’S  SADDLE  WAS  EMPTY  IN  AN  INSTANT. 


Barnaby’s  hands,  when  he  came  out  into  the  street, 
his  precious  flag;  which  being  now  rolled  up  and 
tied  round  the  pole,  looked  like  a  giant  quarter-staff 
as  he  grasped  it  firmly  and  stood  upon  his  guard. 
If  ever  man  believed  with  his  whole  heart  and  soul 
that  he  was  engaged  in  a  just  cause,  and  that  he  was 
bound  to  stand  by  his  leader  to  the  last,  poor  Burna¬ 
by  believed  it  of  himself  and  Lord  George  Gordon. 

11 


and  to  drive  the  people  back  with  the  flat  of  their 
sabres.  As  the  horses  came  in  among  them,  the 
throng  gave  way  at  many  points,  and  the  Guards, 
following  up  their  advantage,  were  rapidly  clearing 
the  ground,  when  two  or  three  of  the  foremost,  who 
were  in  a  manner  cut  off  from  the  rest  by  the  people 
closing  round  them,  made  straight  toward  Barnaby 
and  Hugh,  who  had  no  doubt  been  pointed  out  as 


162 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


the  two  men  who  dropped  into  the  lobby:  laying 
about  them  now  with  some  effect,  and  inflicting  on 
the  more  turbulent  of  their  opponents  a  few  slight 
flesh-wounds,  under  the  influence  of  which  a  man 
dropped  here  and  there  into  the  arms  of  his  fellows, 
amidst  much  groaning  and  confusion. 

At  the  sight  of  gashed  and  bloody  faces,  seen  for 
a  moment  in  the  crowd,  then  hidden  by  the  press 
around  them,  Baruaby  turned  pale  and  sick.  But 
he  stood  his  ground,  and  grasping  his  pole  more  firm¬ 
ly  yet,  kept  his  eye  fixed  upon  the  nearest  soldier, 
nodding  his  head  meanwhile,  as  Hugh,  with  a  scowl¬ 
ing  visage,  whispered  in  his  ear. 

The  soldier  came  spurring  on,  making  his  horse 
rear  as  the  people  pressed  about  him,  cutting  at  the 
hands  of  those  who  would  have  grasped  his  rein  and 
forced  his  charger  back,  and  waving  to  his  comrades 
to  follow — and  still  Baruaby,  without  retreating  an 
inch,  waited  for  his  coming.  Some  called  to  him  to 
fly,  and  some  were  in  the  very  act  of  closing  round 
him,  to  prevent  his  being  taken,  when  the  pole  swept 
into  the  air  above  the  people’s  heads,  and  the  man’s 
saddle  was  empty  in  an  instant. 

Then  he  and  Hugh  turned  and  fled,  the  crowd 
opening  to  let  them  pass,  and  closing  up  again  so 
quickly  that  there  w'as  no  clue  to  the  course  they 
had  taken.  Panting  for  breath,  hot,  dusty,  and  ex¬ 
hausted  with  fatigue,  they  reached  the  river-side  in 
safety,  and  getting  into  a  boat  with  all  dispatch 
were  soon  out  of  any  immediate  danger. 

As  they  glided  down  the  river,  they  plainly  heard 
the  people  cheering ;  and  supposing  they  might  have 
forced  the  soldiers  to  retreat,  lay  upon  their  oars  for 
a  few  minutes,  uncertain  whether  to  return  or  not. 
But  the  crowd  passing  along  Westminster  Bridge, 
soon  assured  them  that  the  populace  were  dispers¬ 
ing;  and  Hugh  rightly  guessed  from  this  that  they 
had  cheered  the  magistrate  for  offering  to  dismiss 
the  military  on  condition  of  their  immediate  depart¬ 
ure  to  their  several  homes,  and  that  he  and  Barnaby 
were  better  where  they  were.  He  advised,  there¬ 
fore,  that  they  should  proceed  to  Blackfriars,  and, 
going  ashore  at  the  bridge,  make  the  best  of  their 
way  to  The  Boot ;  where  there  was  not  only  good 
entertainment  and  safe  lodging,  but  where  they 
would  certainly  be  joined  by  many  of  their  late 
companions.  Barnaby  assenting,  they  decided  on 
this  course  of  action,  and  pulled  for  Blackfriars  ac¬ 
cordingly. 

They  landed  at  a  critical  time,  and  fortunately 
for  themselves  at  the  right  moment.  For,  coming 
into  Fleet  Street,  they  found  it  in  an  unusual  stir ; 
and  inquiring  the  cause,  were  told  that  a  body  of 
Horse  Guards  had  just  galloped  past,  and  that  they 
were  escorting  some  rioters  whom  they  had  made 
prisoners  to  Newgate  for  safety.  Not  at  all  ill 
pleased  to  have  so  narrowly  escaped  the  cavalcade, 
they  lost  no  more  time  in  asking  questions,  but  hur¬ 
ried  to  The  Boot  with  as  much  speed  as  Hugh  con¬ 
sidered  it  prudent  to  make,  without  appearing  sin¬ 
gular,  or  attracting  an  inconvenient  share  of  public 
notice. 


— 

CHAPTER  L 

THEY  were  among  the  first  to  Teach  the  tavern ; 

but  they  had  not  been  there  many  minutes 
when  several  groups  of  men  who  had  termed  part  of 
the  crowd  came  straggling  in.  Among  them  were 
Simon  Tappertit  and  Mr.  Dennis;  both  of  whom, 
but  especially  the  latter,  greeted  Barnaby  with  the 
utmost  warmth,  and  paid  him  many  compliments  on 
the  prowess  he  had  shown. 

“  Which,”  said  Dennis,  with  an  oath,  as  he  rested 
his  bludgeon  in  a  corner,  with  his  hat  upon  it,  and 
took  his  seat  at  the  same  table  with  them,  “  it  does 
me  good  to  think  of.  There  was  a  opportunity! 
But  it  led  to  nothing.  For  my  part,  I  don’t  know 
what  would.  There’s  no  spirit  among  the  people  in 
these  here  times.  Bring  something  to  eat  and  drink 
here.  I’m  disgusted  with  humanity.” 

“On  what  account ?”  asked  Mr.  Tappertit,  who 
had  been  quenching  his  fiery  face  in  a  half-gallon 
can.  “  Don’t  you  consider  this  a  good  beginning, 
mister  ?” 

“  Give  me  security  that  it  an’t  a  ending,”  rejoined 
the  hangman.  “When  that  soldier  went  down,  we 
might  have  made  London  ours ;  but  no — we  stand, 
and  gape,  and  look  on — the  justice  (I  wish  he  had 
had  a  bullet  in  each  eye,  as  he  would  have  had,  if 
we’d  gone  to  work  my  way)  says,  ‘  My  lads,  if  you’ll 
give  me  your  word  to  disperse,  I’ll  order  off  the 
military,’  our  people  sets  up  a  hurra,  throws  up  the 
game  with  the  winning  cards  in  their  hands,  and 
skulks  away  like  a  pack  of  tame  curs  as  they  are. 
Ah !”  said  the  hangman,  in  a  tone  of  deep  disgust, 
“  it  makes  me  blush  for  my  feller-creeturs.  I  wish 
I  had  been  born  a  ox,  I  do !” 

“  You’d  have  been  quite  as  agreeable  a  character 
if  you  had  been,  I  think,”  returned  Simon  Tappertit, 
going  out  in  a  lofty  manner. 

“  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that,”  rejoined  the  hangman, 
calling  after  him  ;  “  if  I  was  a  horned  animal  at  the 
present  moment,  with  the  smallest  grain  of  sense, 
I’d  toss  every  man  in  this  company,  excepting  them 
two,”  meaning  Hugh  and  Barnaby,  “for  his  manner 
of  conducting  himself  this  day.” 

With  which  mournful  review  of  their  proceedings, 
Mr.  Dennis  sought  consolation  in  cold  boiled  beef 
and  beer ;  but  w  ithout  at  all  relaxiug  the  grim  and 
dissatisfied  expression  of  his  face,  the  gloom  of  which 
wras  rather  deepened  than  dissipated  by  their  grate¬ 
ful  influence. 

The  company  who  wrere  thus  libeled  might  have 
retaliated  by  strong  words,  if  not  by  blows,  but  they 
wrere  dispirited  and  w7orn  out.  The  greater  part  of 
them  had  fasted  since  morning ;  all  had  suffered  ex¬ 
tremely  from  the  excessive  heat;  and  between  the 
day’s  shouting,  exertion,  and  excitement,  many  had 
quite  lost  their  voices,  and  so  much  of  their  strength 
that  they  could  hardly  stand.  Then  they  were  un¬ 
certain  what  to  do  next,  fearful  of  the  consequences 
of  what  they  had  done  already,  and  sensible  that 
after  all  they  had  carried  no  point,  but  had  indeed 
left  matters  worse  than  they  had  found  them.  Of 
those  who  had  come  to  The  Boot,  many  dropped  off 
within  an  hour ;  such  of  them  as  were  really  honest 
and  sincere,  never,  after  the  morning’s  experience,  to 
return,  or  to  hold  any  communication  with  their  late 


MUSTER  GASHFORD  VISITS  THE  BOOT. 


163 


companions.  Others  remained  hut  to  refresh  them¬ 
selves,  and  then  went  home  desponding ;  others,  who 
had  theretofore  been  regular  in  their  attendance, 
avoided  the  place  altogether.  The  half-dozen  pris¬ 
oners  whom  the  Guards  had  taken,  were  magnified 
by  report  into  half  a  hundred  at  least ;  and  their 
friends,  being  faint  and  sober,  so  slackened  in  their 
energy,  and  so  drooped  beneath  these  dispiriting  in¬ 
fluences,  that  by  eight  o’clock  in  the  eveniug,  Den¬ 
nis,  Hugh,  and  Barnaby  were  left  alone.  Even  they 
were  fast  asleep  upon  the  benches,  when  Gashford’s 
entrance  roused  them. 

“  Oh !  you  are  here,  then  ?”  said  the  secretary. 
“  Dear  me !” 

“Why,  where  should  we  be,  Muster  Gashford?” 
Dennis  rejoined  as  he  rose  into  a  sitting  posture. 

“  Oh  nowhere,  nowhere,”  he  returned,  with  ex¬ 
cessive  mildness.  “  The  streets  are  filled  with  blue 
cockades.  I  rather  thought  you  might  have  been 
among  them.  I  am  glad  you  are  not.” 

“  You  have  orders  for  us,  master,  then  ?”  said  Hugh. 

“  Oh  dear,  no.  Not  I.  No  orders,  my  good  fel¬ 
low.  What  orders  should  I  have  ?  You  are  not  in 
my  service.” 

“  Muster  Gashford,”  remonstrated  Dennis,  “  we  be¬ 
long  to  the  cause,  don’t  we  ?” 

“  The  cause !”  repeated  the  secretary,  looking  at 
him  in  a  sort  of  abstraction.  “There  is  no  cause. 
The  cause  is  lost.” 

“  Lost !” 

“  Oh  yes.  You  have  heard,  I  suppose  ?  The  pe¬ 
tition  is  rejected  by  a  hundred  and  ninety-two  to 
six.  It’s  quite  final.  We  might  have  spared  our¬ 
selves  some  trouble.  That,  and  my  lord’s  vexation, 
are  the  only  circumstances  I  regret.  I  am  quite 
satisfied  in  all  other  respects.” 

As  he  said  this,  he  took  a  penknife  from  his  pock¬ 
et,  and  putting  his  hat  upon  his  knee,  began  to  busy 
himself  in  ripping  off  the  blue  cockade  which  he 
had  worn  all  day  ;  at  the  same  time  humming  a 
psalm  tune  which  had  been  very  popular  in  the 
morning,  and  dwelling  on  it  with  a  gentle  regret. 

His  two  adherents  looked  at  each  other  and  at 
him,  as  if  they  were  at  a  loss  how  to  pursue  the 
subject.  At  length  Hugh,  after  some  elbowing  and 
winking  between  himself  and  Mr.  Dennis,  ventured 
to  stay  his  hand,  and  to  ask  him  why  he  meddled 
with  that  ribbon  in  his  hat. 

“Because,”  said  the  secretary,  looking  up  with 
something  between  a  snarl  and  a  smile,  “because, 
to  sit  still  and  wear  it,  or  to  fall  asleep  and  wear  it, 
is  a  mockery.  That’s  all,  friend.” 

“  What  would  you  have  us  do,  master  ?”  cried 
Hugh. 

“  Nothing,”  returned  Gashford,  shruggi ng  his  shoul¬ 
ders,  “  nothing.  When  my  lord  was  reproached  and 
threatened  for  standing  by  you,  I,  as  a  prudent  man, 
would  have  had  you  do  nothing.  When  the  soldiers 
were  trampling  you  under  their  horses’  feet,  I  would 
have  had  you  do  nothing.  When  one  of  them  was 
struck  down  by  a  daring  hand,  and  I  saw  confusion 
and  dismay  in  all  their  faces,  I  would  have  had  you 
do  nothing — just  what  you  did,  in  short.  This  is 
the  young  man  who  had  so  little  prudence,  and  so 
much  boldness.  Ah !  I  am  sorry  for  him.” 

“  Sorry,  master!”  cried  Hugh. 


“  Sorry,  Muster  Gashford !”  echoed  Dennis. 

“  In  case  there  should  be  a  proclamation  out  to¬ 
morrow,  offering  five  hundred  pounds,  or  some  such 
trifle,  for  his  apprehension ;  and  in  case  it  should 
include  another  man  who  dropped  into  the  lobby 
from  the  stairs  above,”  said  Gashford,  coldly ;  “  still, 
do  nothing.” 

“ Fire  and  fury,  master!”  cried  Hugh,  starting  up. 
“  What  have  we  done,  that  you  should  talk  to  us 
like  this  ?” 

“  Nothing,”  returned  Gashford,  with  a  sneer.  “  If 
you  are  cast  into  prison ;  if  the  young  mau — ”  here 
he  looked  hard  at  Barnaby’s  attentive  face  — “is 
dragged  from  us  and  from  his  friends ;  perhaps  from 
people  whom  he  loves,  and  whom  his  death  would 
kill,  is  thrown  into  jail,  brought  out  and  hanged  be¬ 
fore  their  eyes,  still,  do  nothing.  You’ll  find  it  your 
best  policy,  I  have  no  doubt.” 

“  Come  on !”  cried  Hugh,  striding  toward  the  door. 
“  Dennis — Barnaby — come  on !” 

“Where?  To  do  what?”  said  Gashford,  slipping 
past  him,  and  standing  with  his  back  against  it. 

“Anywhere!  Any  thing!”  cried  Hugh.  “Stand 
aside,  master,  or  the  window  will  serve  our  turn  as 
well.  Let  us  out !” 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!  You  are  of  such — of  such  an  im¬ 
petuous  nature,”  said  Gashford,  changing  his  man¬ 
ner  for  one  of  the  utmost  good-fellowship  and  the 
pleasantest  raillery;  “you  .are  such  an  excitable 
creature — but  you’ll  driuk  with  me  before  you  go  ?” 

“  Oh  yes — certainly,”  growled  Dennis,  drawing  his 
sleeve  across  his  thirsty  lips.  “No  malice,  brother. 
Drink  with  Muster  Gashford !” 

Hugh  wiped  his  heated  brow,  and  relaxed  into  a 
smile.  The  artful  secretary  laughed  outright. 

“  Some  liquor  here !  Be  quick,  or  he’ll  not  stop, 
even  for  that.  He  is  a  man  of  such  desperate  ar¬ 
dor!”  said  the  smooth  secretary,  whom  Mr.  Dennis 
corroborated  with  sundry  nods  and  muttered  oaths 
— “  Once  roused,  he  is  a  fellow  of  such  fierce  deter¬ 
mination  !” 

Hugh  poised  his  sturdy  arm  aloft,  and  clapping 
Barnaby  on  the  back,  bade  him  fear  nothing.  They 
shook  hands  together — poor  Barnaby  evidently  pos¬ 
sessed  with  the  idea  that  he  was  among  the  most 
virtuous  and  disinterested  heroes  in  the  world — and 
Gashford  laughed  again. 

“I  hear,”  he  said  smoothly,  as  he  stood  among 
them  with  a  great  measure  of  liquor  in  his  hand, 
and  filled  their  glasses  as  quickly  and  as  often  as 
they  chose,  “  I  hear — but  I  can  not  say  whether  it 
be  true  or  false — that  the  men  who  are  loitering  in 
the  streets  to-night  are  half  disposed  to  pull  down 
a  Romish  chapel  or  two,  and  that  they  only  want 
leaders.  I  even  heard  mention  of  those  in  Duke 
Street,  Lincoln’s-Inn  Fields,  and  in  Warwick  Street, 
Golden  Square;  but  common  report,  you  know  — 
You  are  not  going  ?” 

— “  To  do  nothing,  master,  eh  ?”  cried  Hugh.  “  No 
jails  and  halter  for  Barnaby  and  me.  They  must 
be  frightened  out  of  that.  Leaders  are  wanted,  are 
they?  Now  boys!” 

“A  most  impetuous  fellow!”  cried  the  secretary. 
“  Ha,  ha !  A  courageous,  boisterous,  most  vehement 
fellow !  A  man  who — ” 

There  was  no  need  to  finish  the  sentence,  for  they 


164 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


had  rushed  out  of  the  house,  and  were  far  beyond 
hearing.  He  stopped  in  the  middle  of  a  laugh,  list¬ 
ened,  drew  on  his  gloves,  and,  clasping  his  hands  be¬ 
hind  him,  paced  the  deserted  room  for  a  long  time, 
then  bent  his  steps  toward  the  busy  town,  and  walk¬ 
ed  into  the  streets. 

They  were  filled  with  people,  for  the  rumor  of 
that  day’s  proceedings  had  made  a  great  noise. 
Those  persons  who  did  not  care  to  leave  home,  were 
at  their  doors  or  windows,  and  one  topic  of  discourse 
prevailed  on  every  side.  Some  reported  that  the 
riots  were  effectually  put  down ;  others  that  they 


he  heard,  and  diffusing  or  confirming,  whenever  he 
had  an  opportunity,  such  false  intelligence  as  suited 
his  own  purpose ;  and,  busily  occupied  in  this  way, 
turned  into  Holborn  for  the  twentieth  time,  when  a 
great  many  women  and  children  came  flying  along 
the  street — often  panting  and  looking  back — and 
the  confused  murmur  of  numerous  voices  struck 
upon  his  ear.  Assured  by  these  tokens,  and  by  the 
red  light  which  began  to  flash  upon  the  houses  on 
either  side,  that  some  of  his  friends  were  indeed  ap¬ 
proaching,  he  begged  a  moment’s  shelter  at  a  door 
which  opened  as  he  passed,  and  running  with  some 


gg£k 

m 

MfluPIBf 

mm 

\  a\u4 

jBk  !&yl 

BARNABY,  HUGH,  AND  DENNIS  HURRIED  ON  BEFORE  THEM  ALL,  LIKE  HIDEOUS  MADMEN.  AFTER  THEM,  THE  DENSE  THRONG  GAME 

FIGHTING  ON. 


had  broken  out  again ;  some  said  that  Lord  George 
Gordon  had  been  sent  under  a  stroug  guard  to  the 
Tower ;  others  that  an  attempt  had  been  made  upon 
the  Kiug’s  life,  that  the  soldiers  had  been  again  call¬ 
ed  out,  and  that  the  noise  of  musketry  in  a  distaut 
part  of  the  town  had  been  plainly  heard  within  an 
hour.  As  it  grew  darker,  these  stories  became  more 
direful  and  mysterious ;  and  often,  when  some  fright¬ 
ened  passenger  ran  past  with  tidings  that  the  riot¬ 
ers  were  not  far  off,  and  were  coming  up,  the  doors 
were  shut  and  barred,  lower  windows  made  secure, 
and  as  much  consternation  engendered,  as  if  the  city 
were  invaded  by  a  foreign  army. 

Gashford  walked  stealthily  about,  listening  to  all 


other  persons  to  an  upper  window,  looked  out  upon 
the  crowd. 

They  had  torches  among  them,  and  the  chief  faces 
were  distinctly  visible.  That  they  had  been  en¬ 
gaged  in  the  destruction  of  some  building  was  suffi¬ 
ciently  apparent,  and  that  it  was  a  Catholic  place 
of  worship  was  evident  from  the  spoils  they  bore 
as  trophies,  which  were  easily  recognizable  for  the 
vestments  of  priests,  and  rich  fragments  of  altar 
furniture.  Covered  with  soot,  and  dirt,  and  dust, 
and  lime ;  their  garments  torn  to  rags ;  their  hair 
hanging  wildly  about  them ;  their  hands  and  faces 
jagged  and  bleeding  with  the  wounds  of  rusty  nails ; 
Barnaby,  Hugh,  and  Dennis  hurried  on  before  them 


THE  WATCHERS. 


165 


all,  like  hideous  madmen.  After  them,  the  dense 
throng  came  fighting  on ;  some  singing ;  some  shout¬ 
ing  in  triumph ;  some  quarreling  among  themselves ; 
some  menacing  the  spectators  as  they  passed ;  some 
with  great  wooden  fragments,  on  which  they  spent 
their  rage  as  if  they  had  been  alive,  rending  them 
limb  from  limb,  and  hurling  the  scattered  morsels 
high  into  the  air;  some  in  a  drunken  state,  uncon¬ 
scious  of  the  hurts  they  had  received  from  falling 
bricks,  and  stones,  and  beams ;  one  borne  upon  a 
shutter,  in  the  very  midst,  covered  with  a  dingy 
cloth,  a  senseless,  ghastly  heap.  Thus — a  vision  of 
coarse  faces,  with  here  and  there  a  blot  of  flaring, 
smoky  light ;  a  dream  of  demon  heads  and  savage 
eyes,  and  sticks  and  iron  bars  uplifted  in  the  air, 
and  whirled  about ;  a  bewildering  horror,  in  which 
so  much  was  seen,  and  yet  so  little,  which  seemed  so 
long,  and  yet  so  short,  in  which  there  were  so  many 
phantoms,  not  to  be  forgotten  all  through  life,  and 
yet  so  many  things  that  could  not  be  observed  in 
one  distracting  glimpse — it  flitted  onward,  and  was 
gone. 

As  it  passed  away  upon  its  work  of  wrath  and 
ruin,  a  piercing  scream  was  heard.  A  knot  of  per¬ 
sons  ran  toward  the  spot;  Gashford,  who  just  then 
emerged  into  the  street,  among  them.  He  was  on 
the  outskirts  of  the  little  concourse,  and  could  not 
see  or  hear  what  passed  within  ;  but  one  who  had 
a  better  place,  informed  him  that  a  widow  woman 
had  descried  her  son  among  the  rioters. 

“  Is  that  all  V’  said  the  secretary,  turning  his  face 
homeward.  “Well!  I  think  this  looks  a  little 
more  like  business !” 


CHAPTER  LI. 

PROMISING  as  these  outrages  were  to  Gashford’s 
view,  and  much  like  business  as  they  looked, 
they  extended  that  night  no  further.  The  soldiers 
were  again  called  out,  again  they  took  half  a  dozen 
prisoners,  and  again  the  crowd  dispersed  after  a  short 
and  bloodless  scuffle.  Hot  and  drunken  though  they 
were,  they  had  not  yet  broken  all  bounds,  and  set 
all  law  and  government  at  defiance.  Something  of 
their  habitual  deference  to  the  authority  erected  by 
society  for  its  own  preservation  yet  remained  among 
them,  and  had  its  majesty  been  vindicated  in  time, 
the  secretary  would  have  had  to  digest  a  bitter  dis¬ 
appointment. 

By  midnight  the  streets  were  clear  and  quiet,  and, 
save  that  there  stood  in  two  parts  of  the  town  a 
heap  of  nodding  walls  and  pile  of  rubbish  where 
there  had  been  at  sunset  a  rich  and  handsome  build¬ 
ing,  every  thing  wore  its  usual  aspect.  Even  the 
Catholic  gentry  and  tradesmen,  of  whom  there  were 
many  resident  in  different  parts  of  the  City  and  its 
suburbs,  had  no  fear  for  their  lives  or  property,  and 
but  little  indignation  for  the  wrong  they  had  already 
sustained  in  the  plunder  and  destruction  of  their 
temples  of  worship.  An  honest  confidence  in  the 
government  under  whose  protection  they  had  lived 
for  many  years,  and  a  well-founded  reliance  on  the 
good  feeling  and  right  thinking  of  the  great  mass  of 
the  community,  with  whom,  notwithstanding  their 


religious  differences,  they  were  every  day  in  habits 
of  confidential,  affectionate,  and  friendly  intercourse, 
re-assured  them,  even  under  the  excesses  that  had 
been  committed,  and  convinced  them  that  they  who 
were  Protestants  in  any  thing  but  the  name  were  no 
more  to  be  considered  as  abettors  of  these  disgrace¬ 
ful  occurrences  than  they  themselves  were  charge¬ 
able  with  the  uses  of  the  block,  the  rack,  the  gibbet, 
and  the  stake  in  cruel  Mary’s  reign. 

The  clock  was  on  the  stroke  of  one,  when  Gabriel 
Varden,  with  his  lady  and  Miss  Miggs,  sat  waiting 
in  the  little  parlor.  This  fact ;  the  toppling  wicks 
of  the  dull,  wasted  candles;  the  silence  that  pre¬ 
vailed  ;  and,  above  all,  the  niglit-caps  of  both  maid 
and  matron,  were  sufficient  evidence  that  they  had 
been  prepared  for  bed  some  time  ago,  and  had  some 
reason  for  sitting  up  so  far  beyond  their  usual  hour. 

If  any  other  corroborative  testimony  had  been  re¬ 
quired,  it  would  have  been  abundantly  furnished  in 
the  actions  of  Miss  Miggs,  who,  having  arrived  at 
that  restless  state  and  sensitive  condition  of  the 
nervous  system  which  are  the  result  of  long  watch¬ 
ing,  did,  by  a  constant  rubbing  and  tweaking  of  her 
nose,  a  perpetual  change  of  position  (arising  from 
the  sudden  growth  of  imaginary  knots  and  knobs  in 
her  chair),  a  frequent  friction  of  her  eyebrows,  the 
incessant  recurrence  of  a  small  cough,  a  small  groan, 
a  gasp,  a  sigh,  a  sniff,  a  spasmodic  start,  and  by  oth¬ 
er  demonstrations  of  that  nature,  so  file  down  and 
rasp,  as  it  were,  the  patience  of  the  lock-smith,  that 
after  looking  at  her  in  silence  for  some  time,  he  at 
last  broke  out  into  this  apostrophe : 

“  Miggs,  my  good  girl,  go  to  bed — do  go  to  bed. 
You’re  really  worse  than  the  dripping  of  a  hundred 
water-butts  outside  the  window,  or  the  scratching 
of  as  many  mice  behind  the  wainscot.  I  can’t  bear 
it.  Do  go  to  bed,  Miggs.  To  oblige  me — do.” 

“  You  haven’t  got  nothing  to  untie,  sir,”  returned 
Miss  Miggs,  “  and  therefore  your  requests  does  not 
surprise  me.  But  missis  has — and  while  you  sit  up, 
mim  ” — she  added,  turning  to  the  lock-smith’s  wife, 
“  I  couldn’t,  no,  not  if  twenty  times  the  quantity  of 
cold  water  was  aperiently  running  down  my  back 
at  this  moment,  go  to  bed  with  a  quiet  spirit.” 

Having  spoken  these  words,  Miss  Miggs  made 
divers  efforts  to  rub  her  shoulders  in  an  impossible 
place,  and  shivered  from  head  to  foot ;  thereby  giv¬ 
ing  the  beholders  to  understand  that  the  imaginary 
cascade  was  still  in  full  flow,  but  that  a  sense  of 
duty  upheld  her  under  that  and  all  other  sufferings, 
and  nerved  her  to  endurance. 

Mrs.  Varden  being  too  sleepy  to  speak,  and  Miss 
Miggs  having,  as  the  phrase  is,  said  her  say,  the  lock¬ 
smith  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  sigh,  and  be-  as  quiet 
as  he  could. 

But  to  be  quiet  with  such  a  basilisk  before  him 
was  impossible.  If  he  looked  another  way,  it  was 
worse  to  feel  that  she  was  rubbing  her  cheek,  or 
twitching  her  ear,  or  winking  her  eye,  or  making  all 
kinds  of  extraordinary  shapes  with  her  nose,  than  to 
see  her  do  it.  If  she  was  for  a  moment  free  from 
any  of  these  complaints,  it  was  only  because  of  her 
foot  being  asleep,  or  of  her  arm  having  got  the  fid¬ 
gets,  or  of  her  leg  being  doubled  up  with  the  cramp, 
or  of  some  other  horrible  disorder  which  racked  her 
whole  frame.  If  she  did  enjoy  a  moment’s  ease, 


1G6 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


then  with  her  eyes  shut  and  her  mouth  wide  open, 
she  would  he  seen  to  sit  very  stiff  and  upright  in  her 
chair ;  then  to  nod  a  little  way  forward,  and  stop 
with  a  jerk ;  then  to  nod  a  little  farther  forward, 
and  stop  with  another  jerk ;  then  to  recover  herself,* 
then  to  come  forward  again — lower — lower — lower 
— by  very  slow  degrees,  until,  just  as  it  seemed  im¬ 
possible  that  she  could  preserve  her  balance  for  an¬ 
other  instant,  and  the  lock-smith  was  about  to  call 
out  in  an  agony,  to  save  her  from  dashing  down  upon 
her  forehead  and  fracturing  her  skull,  then  all  of  a 
sudden,  and  without  the  smallest  notice,  she  would 
come  upright  and  rigid  again  with  her  eyes  open, 
and  in  her  countenance  an  expression  of  defiance, 
sleepy  but  yet  most  obstinate,  which  plainly  said, 
“I7ve  never  once  closed  ’em  since  I  looked  at  you 
last,  and  I’ll  take  my  oath  of  it !” 

At  length,  after  the  clock  had  struck  two,  there 
was  a  sound  at  the  street  door  as  if  somebody  had 
fallen  against  the  knocker  by  accident.  Miss  Miggs 
immediately  jumping  up,  and  clapping  her  hands, 
cried  with  a  drowsy  mingling  of  the  sacred  and  pro¬ 
fane,  “  Ally  Looyer,  mim !  there’s  Simmuns’s  knock !” 

“  Who’s  there  ?”  said  Gabriel. 

“  Me !”  cried  the  well-known  voice  of  Mr.  Tapper- 
tit.  Gabriel  opened  the  door,  and  gave  him  admis¬ 
sion. 

He  did  not  cut  a  very  insinuating  figure,  for  a 
man  of  his  stature  suffers  in  a  crowd ;  and  having 
been  active  in  yesterday  morning’s  work,  his  dress 
was  literally  crushed  from  head  to  foot;  his  hat  be¬ 
ing  beaten  out  of  all  shape,  and  his  shoes  trodden 
down  at  heel  like  slippers.  His  coat  fluttered  in 
strips  about  him,  the  buckles  were  torn  away  both 
from  his  knees  and  feet,  half  his  neckerchief  was 
gone,  and  the  bosom  of  his  shirt  was  rent  to  tatters. 
Yet  notwithstanding  all  these  personal  disadvan¬ 
tages  ;  despite  his  being  very  weak  from  heat  and 
fatigue,  and  so  begrimed  with  mud  and  dust  that 
he  might  have  been  in  a  case,  for  any  thing  of  the 
real  texture  (either  of  his  skin  or  apparel),  that  the 
eye  could  discern ;  he  stalked  haughtily  into  the 
parlor,  and  throwing  himself  into  a  chair,  and  en¬ 
deavoring  to  thrust  his  hands  into  the  pockets  of  his 
small-clothes,  which  were  turned  inside  out  and  dis¬ 
played  upon  his  legs  like  tassels,  surveyed  the  house¬ 
hold  with  a  gloomy  dignity. 

“  Simon,”  said  the  lock-smith,  gravely,  “  how  comes 
it  that  you  return  home  at  this  time  of  night,  and 
in  this  condition  ?  Give  me  an  assurance  that  you 
have  not  been  among  the  rioters,  and  I  am  satisfied.” 

“  Sir,”  replied  Mr.  Tappertit,  with  a  contemptuous 
look,  “  I  wonder  at  your  assurance  in  making  such 
demands.” 

“  You  have  been  drinking,”  said  the  lock-smith. 

u  As  a  general  principle,  and  in  the  most  offensive 
sense  of  the  words,  sir,”  returned  his  journeyman 
with  great  self-possession,  “  I  consider  you  a  liar.  In 
that  last  observation  you  have  unintentionally — un¬ 
intentionally,  sir — struck  upon  the  truth.” 

“  Martha,”  said  the  lock-smith,  turning  to  his  wife, 
and  shaking  his  head  sorrowfully,  while  a  smile  at 
the  absurd  figure  before  him  still  played  upon  his 
open  face,  “I  trust  it  may  turn  out  that  this  poor 
lad  is  not  the  victim  of  the  knaves  and  fools  we  have 
so  often  had  words  about,  and  who  have  done  so 


much  harm  to-day.  If  he  has  been  at  Warwick 
Street,  or  Duke  Street  to-night — ” 

“  He  has  been  at  neither,  sir,”  cried  Mr.  Tappertit, 
in  a  loud  voice,  which  he  suddenly  dropped  into  a 
whisper,  as  he  repeated,  with  eyes  fixed  upon  the 
lock-smith,  “  he  has  been  at  neither.” 

“ 1  am  glad  of  it,  with  all  my  heart,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith,  in  a  serious  tone ;  “  for  if  he  had  been,  and 
it  could  be  proved  against  him,  Martha,  your  great 
Association  would  have  been  to  him  the  cart  that 
draws  men  to  the  gallows  and  leaves  them  hanging 
in  the  air.  It  would,  as  sure  as  we’re  alive  !” 

Mrs.  Yarden  was  too  much  scared  by  Simon’s  al¬ 
tered  manner  and  appearance,  and  by  the  accounts 
of  the  rioters  which  had  reached  her  ears  that  night, 
to  offer  any  retort,  or  to  have  recourse  to  her  usual 
matrimonial  policy.  Miss  Miggs  wrung  her  hands, 
and  wept. 

“  He  was  not  at  Duke  Street,  or  at  Warwick  Street, 
G.  Varden,”  said  Simon,  sternly;  “but  he  was  at 
Westminster.  Perhaps,  sir,  he  kicked  a  county  mem¬ 
ber,  perhaps,  sir,  he  tapped  a  lord — you  may  stare,  sir, 
I  repeat  it — blood  flowed  from  noses,  and  perhaps  he 
tapped  a  lord.  Who  knows  ?  This,”  he  added,  put¬ 
ting  his  hand  into  his  waistcoat-pocket,  and  taking 
out  a  large  tooth,  at  the  sight  of  which  both  Miggs 
and  Mrs.  Yarden  screamed — “this  was  a  bishop’s. 
Beware,  G.  Yarden!” 

“  Now,  I  would  rather,”  said  the  lock-smith,  has¬ 
tily,  “  have  paid  five  hundred  pounds,  than  had  this 
come  to  pass.  You  idiot,  do  you  know  what  peril 
you  stand  in  ?” 

“I  know  it,  sir,”  replied  his  journeyman,  “and  it 
is  my  glory.  I  was  there  ;  every  body  saw  me  there. 
I  was  conspicuous,  and  prominent.  I  will  abide  the 
consequences.” 

The  lock -smith,  really  disturbed  aud  agitated, 
paced  to  and  fro  in  silence — glancing  at  his  former 
’prentice  every  now  and  then — and  at  length  stop¬ 
ping  before  him,  said : 

“  Get  to  bed,  and  sleep  for  a  couple  of  hours  that 
you  may  wake  penitent,  and  with  some  of  your 
senses  about  you.  Be  sorry  for  what  you  have  done, 
and  we  will  try  to  save  you.  If  I  call  him  by  five 
o’clock,”  said  Yarden,  turning  hurriedly  to  his  wife, 
“  and  he  washes  himself  clean  and  changes  his  dress, 
he  may  get  to  the  Tower  Stairs,  and  away  by  the 
Gravesend  tide-boat,  before  any  search  is  made  for 
him.  From  there  he  can  easily  get  on  to  Canterbury, 
where  your  cousin  will  give  him  work  till  this  storm 
has  blown  over.  I  am  not  sure  that  I  do  right  in 
screening  him  from  the  punishment  he  deserves,  but 
he  has  lived  in  this  house,  man  and  boy,  for  a  dozen 
years,  and  I  should  be  sorry  if  for  this  one  day’s 
work  he  made  a  miserable  end.  Lock  the  front 
door,  Miggs,  and  show  no  light  toward  the  street 
when  you  go  up  stairs.  Quick,  Simon !  Get  to 
bed !” 

“And  do  you  suppose,  sir,”  retorted  Mr.  Tappertit, 
with  a  thickness  and  slowness  of  speech  which  con¬ 
trasted  forcibly  with  the  rapidity  aud  earnestness 
of  his  kind-hearted  master — aud  do  you  suppose,  sir, 
that  I  am  base  and  mean  enough  to  accept  your  serv¬ 
ile  proposition  ?  Miscreant !” 

“  Whatever  you  please,  Sim,  but  get  to  bed.  Ev¬ 
ery  minute  is  of  consequence.  The  light  here,  Miggs !” 


MISS  MIGGS’ S  EMOTION. 


167 


“  Yes,  yes,  oil  do !  Go  to  bed  directly,”  cried  the 
two  women  together. 

Mr.  Tappertit  stood  upon  his  feet,  and  pushing  his 
chair  away  to  show  that  he  needed  no  assistance, 
answered,  swaying  himself  to  and  fro,  and  managing 
his  head  as  if  it  had  no  connection  whatever  with 
his  body: 

“  You  spoke  of  Miggs,  sir — Miggs  may  be  smoth¬ 
ered  !” 

“  Oh,  Simmun !”  ejaculated  that  young  lady,  in  a 
faint  voice.  “Oh,  mim!  Oh,  sir!  Oh,  goodness 
gracious,  what  a  turn  he  has  given  me !” 

“  This  family  may  all  be  smothered,  sir,”  returned 
Mr.  Tappertit,  after  glancing  at  her  with  a  smile  of 
inelfable  disdain,  “  excepting  Mrs.  Y.  I  have  come 


feller,”  replied  his  journeyman,  “  as  you’ll  find.  Keep 
that  safe,  and  where  you  can  lay  your  hand  upon  it 
iu  an  instant.  And  chalk  ‘  No  Popery  ’  on  your  door 
to-morrow  night,  and  for  a  week  to  come — that’s 
all.” 

“This  is  a  genuine  document,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith,  “I  know,  for  I  have  seen  the  hand  before. 
What  threat  does  it  imply  ?  What  devil  is  abroad  ?” 

“A  fiery  devil,”  retorted  Sim  ;  “  a  flaming,  furious 
devil.  Don’t  you  put  yourself  in  its  way,  or  you’re 
done  for,  my  buck.  Be  warned  in  time,  G.  Varden. 
Farewell !” 

But  here  the  two  women  threw  themselves  in  his 
way — especially  Miss  Miggs,  who  fell  upon  him  with 
such  fervor  that  she  pinned  him  against  the  wall — 


here,  sir,  for  her  sake,  this  night.  Mrs.  Varden,  take 
this  piece  of  paper.  It’s  a  protection,  ma’am.  You 
may  need  it.” 

With  these  words  he  held  out  at  arms-lengtli  a 
dirty,  crumpled  scrap  of  writing.  The  lock-smith 
took  it  from  him,  opened  it,  and  read  as  follows : 

“All  good  friends  to  our  cause,  I  hope,  will  be  par¬ 
ticular,  and  do  no  injury  to  the  property  of  any  true 
Protestant.  I  am  well  assured  that  the  proprietor 
of  this  house  is  a  staunch  and  worthy  friend  to  the 
cause.  George  Gordon.” 

“What’s  this?”  said  the  lock-smith,  with  an  alter¬ 
ed  face. 

“  Something  that’ll  do  you  good  service,  young 


and  conjured  him  in  moving  words  not  to  go  forth 
till  he  was  sober ;  to  listen  to  reason ;  to  think  of 
it ;  to  take  some  rest,  and  then  determine. 

“I  tell  you,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  “that  my  mind 
is  made  up.  My  bleeding  country  calls  me,  and  I 
go!  Miggs,  if  you  don’t  get  out  of  the  way,  I’ll 
pinch  you.” 

Miss  Miggs,  still  clinging  to  the  rebel,  screamed 
once  vociferously ;  but  whether  in  the  distraction 
of  her  mind,  or  because  of  his  having  executed  his 
*  threat,  is  uncertain. 

“  Release  me,”  said  Simon,  struggling  to  free  him¬ 
self  from  her  chaste  but  spider-like  embrace.  “  Let 
me  go!  I  have  made  arrangements  for  you  in  an 
altered  state  of  society,  and  mean  to  provide  for  you 
comfortably  in  life— there !  Will  that  satisfy  you  ?” 


168 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


“  Ob,  Simrnun  !”  cried  Miss  Miggs.  “  Ob,  my  bless¬ 
ed  Simrnun !  Ob,  mim  !  what  are  my  feelings  at 
this  conflicting  moment!” 

Of  a  rather  turbulent  description,  it  would  seem ; 
for  her  night-cap  bad  been  knocked  oil'  in  the  scuffle, 
and  she  was  on  her  knees  upon  the  floor,  making  a 
strange  revelation  of  blue  and  yellow  curl-papers, 
straggling  locks  of  hair,  tags  of  stay-laces,  and  strings 
of  it’s  impossible  to  say  what ;  panting  for  breath, 
clasping  her  bands,  turning  her  eyes  upward,  shed¬ 
ding  abundance  of  tears,  and  exhibiting  various  oth¬ 
er  symptoms  of  the  acutest  mental  suffering. 

“  I  leave,”  said  Simon,  turning  to  his  master,  with 
an  utter  disregard  of  Miggs’s  maidenly  affliction,  “  a 
box  of  things  up  stairs.  Do  what  you  like  with  ’em. 
I  don’t  wantjem.  I’m  never  coming  back  here  any 
more.  Provide  yourself,  sir,  with  a  journeyman; 
I’m  my  country’s  journeyman ;  henceforward  that’s 
my  line  of  business.” 

“Be  what  you  like  in  two  hours’  time,  but  now 
go  up  to  bed,”  returned  the  lock -smith,  planting 
himself  in  the  door-way.  “  Do  you  hear  me  ?  Go 
to  bed !” 

“I  hear  you,  and  defy  you,  Varden,”  rejoined  Si¬ 
mon  Tappertit.  “This  night,  sir,  I  have  been  in 
the  country  planning  an  expedition  which  shall  fill 
your  bell -hanging  soul  with  wonder  and  dismay. 
The  plot  demands  my  utmost  energy.  Let  me  pass !” 

“  I’ll  knock  you  down  if  you  come  near  the  door,” 
replied  the  lock-smith.  “  You  had  better  go  to  bed !” 

Simon  made  no  answer,  but  gathering  himself  up 
as  straight  as  he  could,  plunged  headforemost  at  his 
old  master,  and  the  two  went  driving  out  into  the 
workshop  together,  plying  their  hands  and  feet  so 
briskly  that  they  looked  like  half  a  dozen,  while 
Miggs  and  Mrs.  Varden  screamed  for  twelve. 

It  would  have  been  easy  for  Varden  to  knock  his 
old  ’prentice  down,  and  bind  him  hand  and  foot ; 
but  as  he  was  loath  to  hurt  him  in  his  then  defense¬ 
less  state,  he  contented  himself  with  parrying  his 
blows  when  he  could,  taking  them  in  perfect  good 
part  when  he  could  not,  and  keeping  between  him 
and  the  door,  until  a  favorable  opportunity  should 
present  itself  for  forcing  him  to  retreat  up  stairs, 
and  shutting  him  up  in  his  own  room.  But,  in  the 
goodness  of  his  heart,  he  calculated  too  much  upon 
his  adversary’s  weakness,  and  forgot  that  drunken 
inen  who  have  lost  the  power  of  walking  steadily 
can  often  run.  Watching  his  time,  Simon  Tapper- 
tit  made  a  cunning  show  of  falling  back,  staggered 
unexpectedly  forward,  brushed  passed  him,  opened 
the  door  (he  knew  the  trick  of  that  lock  well),  and 
darted  down  the  street  like  a  mad  dog.  The  lock¬ 
smith  paused  for  a  moment  in  the  excess  of  his  as¬ 
tonishment,  and  then  gave  chase. 

It  was  an  excellent  season  for  a  run ;  for  at  that 
silent  hour  the  streets  were  deserted,  the  air  was 
cool,  and  the  flying  figure  before  him  distinctly  vis¬ 
ible  at  a  great  distance,  as  it  sped  away,  with  a  long 
gaunt  shadow  following  at  its  heels.  But  the  short-  % 
winded  lock-smith  had  no  chance  against  a  man  of 
Sim’s  youth  and  spare  figure,  though  the  day  had 
been  when  he  could  have  run  him  down  in  no  time. 
The  space  between  them  rapidly  increased ;  and  as 
the  rays  of  the  rising  sun  streamed  upon  Simon  in 
the  act  of  turning  a  distant  corner,  Gabriel  Varden 


was  fain  to  give  up,  and  sit  down  on  a  door-step  to 
fetch  his  breath.  Simon  meanwhile,  without  once 
stopping,  fled  at  the  same  degree  of  swiftness  to  The 
Boot,  where,  as  he  well  knew,  some  of  his  company 
were  lying,  and  at  which  respectable  hostelry — for 
he  had  already  acquired  the  distinction  of  being  in 
great  peril  of  the  law — a  friendly  watch  had  been 
expecting  him  all  night,  and  was  even  now  on  the 
lookout  for  his  coming. 

“  Go  thy  ways,  Sim,  go  thy  ways,”  said  the  lock¬ 
smith,  as  soon  as  he  could  speak.  “  I  have  done  my 
best  for  thee,  poor  lad,  and  would  have  saved  thee, 
but  the  rope  is  round  thy  neck,  I  fear.” 

So  saying,  and  shaking  his  head  in  a  very  sorrow¬ 
ful  and  disconsolate  manner,  he  turned  back,  and 
soon  re-entered  his  own  house,  where  Mrs.  Varden 
and  the  faithful  Miggs  had  been  anxiously  expect¬ 
ing  his  return. 

Now  Mrs.  Varden  (and  by  consequence  Miss  Miggs 
likewise)  was  impressed  with  a  secret  misgiving 
that  she  had  done  wrong ;  that  she  had,  to  the  ut¬ 
most  of  her  small  means,  aided  and  abetted  the 
growth  of  disturbances  the  end  of  which  it  was  im¬ 
possible  to  foresee ;  that  she  had  led  remotely  to  the 
scene  which  had  just  passed ;  and  that  the  lock¬ 
smith’s  time  for  triumph  and  reproach  had  now  ar¬ 
rived  indeed.  And  so  strongly  did  Mrs.  Varden  feel 
this,  and  so  crestfallen  was  she  in  consequence,  that 
while  her  husband  was  pursuing  their  lost  journey¬ 
man,  she  secreted  under  her  chair  the  little  red¬ 
brick  dwelling-house  with  the  yellow  roof,  lest  it 
should  furnish  new  occasion  for  reference  to  the 
painful  theme;  and  now  hid  the  same  still  more 
with  the  skirts  of  her  dress. 

But  it  happened  that  the  lock -smith  had  been 
thinking  of  this  very  article  on  his  way  home,  and 
that,  coming  into  the  room  and  not  seeing  it,  he  at 
once  demanded  where  it  was.  , 

Mrs.  Varden  had  no  resource  but  to  produce  it, 
which  she  did  with  many  tears,  and  broken  protes¬ 
tations  that  if  she  could  have  known — 

“  Yes,  yes,”  said  Varden,  “  of  course — I  know  that. 
I  don’t  mean  to  reproach  you,  my  dear.  But  recol¬ 
lect  from  this  time  that  all  good  things  perverted 
to  evil  purposes  are  worse  than  those  which  are  nat¬ 
urally  bad.  A  thoroughly  wicked  woman  is  wick¬ 
ed  indeed.  When  religion  goes  wrong,  she  is  very 
wrong,  for  the  same  reason.  Let  us  say  no  more 
about  it,  my  dear.” 

So  he  dropped  the  red-brick  dwelling-house  on  the 
floor,  and  setting  his  heel  upon  it,  crushed  it  into 
pieces.  The  half-pence,  and  sixpences,  and  other 
voluntary  contributions,  rolled  about  in  all  direc¬ 
tions,  but  nobody  offered  to  touch  them,  or  to  take 
them  up. 

“That,”  said  the  lock-smith,  “is  easily  disposed 
of,  and  I  would  to  Heaven  that  every  thing  growing 
out  of  the  same  society  could  be  settled  as  easily.” 

“  It  happens  very  fortunately,  Varden,”  said  his 
wife,  with  her  handkerchief  to  her  eyes,  “that  in 
case  any  more  disturbances  should  happen — which 
I  hope  not,  I  sincerely  hope  not — ” 

“  I  hope  so  too,  my  dear.” 

“  — That  in  case  any  should  occur,  we  have  the 
piece  of  paper  which  that  poor  misguided  young  man 
brought.” 


THE  LOCKSMITH  RISES  WITH  THE  OCCASION. 


169 


“Ay,  to  be  sure,”  said  the  lock -smith,  turning 
quickly  round.  “  Where  is  that  piece  of  paper  V’ 

Mrs.  Varden  stood  aghast  as  he  took  it  from  her 
outstretched  hand,  tore  it  into  fragments,  and  threw 
them  under  the  grate. 

“  Not  use  it  ?”  she  said. 

“  Use  it !”  cried  the  lock-smith.  “  No !  Let  them 
come  and  pull  the  roof  about  our  ears;  let  them 
burn  us  out  of  house  and  home;  I’d  neither  have 
the  protection  of  their  leader,  nor  chalk  their  howl 
upon  my  door,  though,  for  not  doing  it,  they  shot 
me  on  my  own  threshold.  Use  it !  Let  them  come 
and  do  their  worst.  The  first  man  who  crosses  my 
door-step  on  such  an  errand  as  theirs  had  better  be 
a  hundred  miles  away.  Let  him  look  to  it.  The 
others  may  kave  their  will.  I  wouldn’t  beg  or  buy 
them  off,  if,  instead  of  every  pound  of  iron  in  the 
place,  there  was  a  hundred-weight  of  gold.  Get  you 
to  bed,  Martha.  I  shall  take  down  the  shutters  and 
go  to  work.” 

“  So  early  1”  said  his  wife. 

“Ay,”  replied  the  lock-smith,  cheerily,  “so  early. 
Come  when  they  may,  they  shall  not  find  us  skulk¬ 
ing  and  hiding,  as  if  we  feared  to  take  our  portion 
of  the  light  of  day,  and  left  it  all  to  them.  So  pleas¬ 
ant  dreams  to  you,  my  dear,  and  cheerful  sleep !” 

With  that  he  gave  his  wife  a  hearty  kiss,  and  bade 
her  delay  no  longer,  or  it  would  be  time  to  rise  be¬ 
fore  she  lay  down  to  rest.  Mrs.  Yarden  quite  amia¬ 
bly  and  meekly  walked  up  stairs,  followed  by  Miggs, 
who,  although  a  good  deal  subdued,  could  not  refrain 
from  sundry  stimulative  coughs  and  sniffs  by  the 
way,  or  from  holding  up  her  hands  in  astonishment 
at  the  daring  conduct  of  master. 


*  CHAPTER  LII. 

MOB  is  usually  a  creature  of  very  mysterious 
existence,  particularly  in  a  large  city.  Where 
it  comes  from  or  whither  it  goes,  few  men  can  tell. 
Assembling  and  dispersing  with  equal  suddenness, 
it  is  as  difficult  to  follow  to  its  various  sources  as 
the  sea  itself;  nor  does  the  parallel  stop  here;  for 
the  ocean  is  not  more  fickle  and  uncertain,  more  ter¬ 
rible  when  roused,  more  unreasonable,  or  more  cruel. 

The  people  who  were  boisterous  at  Westminster 
upon  the  Friday  morning,  and  were  eagerly  bent 
upon  the  work  of  devastation  in  Duke  Street  and 
Warwick  Street  at  night,  were,  in  the  mass,  the 
same.  Allowing  for  the  chance  accessions  of  which 
any  crowd  is  morally  sure  in  a  town  where  there 
must  always  be  a  large  number  of  idle  and  profli¬ 
gate  persons,  one  and  the  same  mob  was  at  both 
places.  Yet  they  spread  themselves  in  various  di¬ 
rections  when  they  dispersed  in  the  afternoon,  made 
no  appointment  for  re -assembling,  had  no  definite 
purpose  or  design,  and  indeed,  for  any  thing  they 
knew,  were  scattered  beyond  the  hope  of  future 
uuion. 

At  The  Boot,  which,  as  has  been  shown,  was  in  a 
manner  the  head-quarters  of  the  rioters,  there  were 
not,  upon  this  Friday  night,  a  dozen  people.  Some 
slept  in  the  stable  and  outhouses,  some  in  the  com¬ 
mon  room,  some  two  or  three  in  beds.  The  rest 


were  in  their  usual  homes  or  haunts.  Perhaps  not 
a  score  in  all  lay  in  the  adjacent  fields  and  lanes, 
and  under  hay-stacks,  or  near  the  warmth  of  brick¬ 
kilns,  who  had  not  their  accustomed  place  of  rest 
beneath  the  open  sky.  As  to  the  public  ways  with¬ 
in  the  town,  they  had  their  ordinary  nightly  occu¬ 
pants,  and  no  others ;  the  usual  amount  of  vice  and 
wretchedness,  but  no  more. 

The  experience  of  one  evening,  however,  had 
taught  the  reckless  leaders  of  disturbance  that  they 
had  but  to  show  themselves  in  the  streets,  to  be  im¬ 
mediately  surrounded  by  materials  which  they  could 
only  have  kept  together  when  their  aid  was  not 
required,  at  great  risk,  expense,  and  trouble.  Once 
possessed  of  this  secret,  they  were  as  confident  as  if 
twenty  thousand  men,  devoted  to  their  will,  had 
been  encamped  about  them,  and  assumed  a  confi¬ 
dence  which  could  not  have  been  surpassed,  though 
that  had  really  been  the  case.  All  day,  Saturday, 
they  remained  quiet.  On  Sunday  they  rather  stud¬ 
ied  how  to  keep  their  men  within  call,  aud  in  full 
hope,  than  to  follow  out,  by  any  fierce  measure,  their 
first  day’s  proceedings. 

“I  hope,”  said  Dennis,  as,  with  a  loud  yawn,  he 
raised  his  body  from  a  heap  of  straw  on  which  he 
had  been  sleeping,  and  supporting  his  head  upon 
his  hand,  appealed  to  Hugh  on  Sunday  morning, 
“  that  Muster  Gashford  allows  some  rest  ?  Perhaps 
he’d  have  us  at  work  again  already,  eh  ?” 

“It’s  not  his  way  to  let  matters  drop,  you  may  be 
sure  of  that,”  growled  Hugh,  in  answer.  “  I’m  in 
no  humor  to  stir  yet,  though.  I’m  as  stiff  as  a  dead 
body,  and  as  full  of  ugly  scratches  as  if  I  had  been 
fighting  all  day  yesterday  with  wild-cats.” 

“  You’ve  so  much  enthusiasm,  that’s  it,”  said  Den¬ 
nis,  looking  with  great  admiration  at  the  uncombed 
head,  matted  beard,  and  torn  hands  and  face  of  the 
wild  figure  before  him;  “you’re  such  a  devil  of  a 
fellow.  You  hurt  yourself  a  hundred  times  more 
than  you  need,  because  you  will  be  foremost  in  ev¬ 
ery  thing,  and  will  do  more  than  the  rest.” 

“For  the  matter  of  that,”  returned  Hugh,  shaking 
back  his  ragged  hair  and  glancing  toward  the  door 
of  the  stable  in  which  they  lay ;  “  there’s  one  yonder 
as  good  as  me.  What  did  I  tell  you  about  him? 
Did  I  say  he  was  worth  a  dozen,  when  you  doubted 
him  ?” 

Mr.  Dennis  rolled  lazily  over  upon  his  breast,  and 
resting  his  chin  upon  his  hand  in  imitation  of  the 
attitude  in  which  Hugh  lay,  said,  as  he  too  looked 
toward  the  door : 

“Ay,  ay,  you  knew  him,  brother,  you  knew  him. 
But  who’d  suppose,  to  look  at  that  chap  now,  that 
he  could  be  the  man  he  is!  Isn’t  it  a  thousand  cruel 
pities,  brother,  that  instead  of  taking  his  nat’ral  rest 
and  qualifying  himself  for  further  exertions  in  this 
here  honorable  cause,  he  should  be  playing  at  sol¬ 
diers  like  a  boy  ?  And  his  cleanliness  too !”  said  Mr. 
Dennis,  who  certainly  had  no  reason  to  entertain  a 
fellow-feeling  with  any  body  who  was  particular  on 
that  score ;  “  what  weakness  he’s  guilty  of,  with  re¬ 
spect  to  his  cleanliness!  At  five  o’clock  this  morn¬ 
ing  there  he  was  at  the  pump,  though  any  one  would 
think  he  had  gone  through  enough,  the  day  before 
yesterday,  to  be  pretty  fast  asleep  at  that  time.  But 
no — when  I  woke  for  a  minute  or  two,  there  he  was 


170 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


at  the  pump ;  and  if  you’d  seen  him  sticking  them 
peacock’s  feathers  into  his  hat  when  he’d  done  wash¬ 
ing — ah!  I’m  sorry  lie’s  such  a  imperfect  character; 
hut  the  best  on  us  is  incomplete  in  some  p’int  of 
view  or  another.” 

The  subject  of  this  dialogue  and  of  these  conclud¬ 
ing  remarks,  which  were  uttered  in  a  tone  of  philo¬ 
sophical  meditation,  was,  as  the  reader  will  have  di¬ 
vined,  no  other  than  Barnaby,  who,  with  his  flag  in 
his  hand,  stood  sentry  in  the  little  patch  of  sunlight 
at  the  distant  door,  or  walked  to  and  fro  outside, 
singing  softly  to  himself,  and  keeping  time  to  the 
music  of  some  clear  church  bells.  Whether  he  stood 
still,  leaning  with  both  hands  on  the  flag-staff,  or 
bearing  it  upon  his  shoulder,  paced  slowly  up  and 
down,  the  careful  arrangement  of  his  poor  dress  and 
his  erect  and  lofty  bearing  showed  how  high  a  sense 
he  had  of  the  great  importance  of  his  trust,  and 
how  happy  and  how  proud  it  made  him.  To  Hugh 
and  his  companion,  who  lay  in  a  dark  corner  of  the 
gloomy  shed,  he,  and  the  sunlight,  and  the  peaceful 
Sabbath  sound  to  which  he  made  response,  seemed 
like  a  bright  picture  framed  by  the  door,  and  set  olf 
by  the  stable’s  blackness.  The  whole  formed  such  a 
contrast  to  themselves,  as  they  lay  wallowing,  like 
some  obscene  animals,  in  their  squalor  and  wicked¬ 
ness  on  the  two  heaps  of  straw,  that  for  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  they  looked  on  without  speaking,  and  felt  al¬ 
most  ashamed. 

“Ah!”  said  Hugh  at  length,  carrying  it  off  with 
a  laugh :  “  he’s  a  rare  fellow  is  Barnaby,  and  can  do 
more,  with  less  rest,  or  meat,  or  drink,  than  any  of 
us.  As  to  his  soldiering,  I  put  him  on  duty  there.” 

“  Then  there  was  a  object  in  it,  and  a  proper  good 
one  too,  I’ll  be  sworn,”  retorted  Dennis  with  a  broad 
grin,  and  an  oath  of  the  same  quality.  “  What  was 
it,  brother  ?” 

“  Why,  you  see,”  said  Hugh,  crawling  a  little  near¬ 
er  to  him,  “that  our  noble  captain  yonder  came  in 
yesterday  morning  rather  the  worse  for  liquor,  and 
was — like  you  and  me — ditto  last  night.” 

Dennis  looked  to  where  Simon  Tappertit  lay  coiled 
upon  a  truss  of  hay,  snoring  profoundly,  and  nodded. 

“Aud  our  noble  captain,”  continued  Hugh,  with" 
another  laugh,  “  our  noble  captain  and  I  have  plan¬ 
ned  for  to-morrow  a  roaring  expedition,  with  good 
profit  in  it.” 

“Again  the  Papists ?”  asked  Dennis,  rubbing  his 
hands. 

“Ay,  against  the  Papists — against  one  of ’em,  at 
least,  that  some  of  us,  and  I  for  one,  owe  a  good 
heavy  grudge  to.” 

“  Not  Muster  Gashford’s  friend  that  he  spoke  to 
us  about  in  my  house,  eh  ?”  said  Dennis,  brimful  of 
pleasant  expectation. 

“  The  same  man,”  said  Hugh. 

“  That’s  your  sort,”  cried  Mr.  Dennis,  gayly  shak¬ 
ing  hands  with  him,  “  that’s  the  kind  of  game.  Let’s 
have  revenges  and  injuries,  and  all  that,  and  we  shall 
get  on  twice  as  fast.  Now  you  talk,  indeed!” 

“  Ha,  ha,  ha !  The  captain,”  added  Hugh,  “  has 
thoughts  of  carrying  off  a  woman  in  the  bustle,  and 
— ha,  ha,  ha! — and  so  have  I !” 

Mr.  Dennis  received  this  part  of  the  scheme  with 
a  wry  face,  observing  that,  as  a  general  principle,  he 
objected  to  women  altogether,  as  being  unsafe  and 


slippery  persons,  on  whom  there  was  no  calculating 
with  any  certainty,  and  who  were  never  in  the  same 
mind  for  four-and-twenty  hours  at  a  stretch.  He 
might  have  expatiated  on  this  suggestive  theme  at 
much  greater  length,  but  that  it  occurred  to  him  to 
ask  what  connection  existed  between  the  proposed 
expedition  and  Baruaby’s  being  posted  at  the  stable 
door  as  sentry;  to  which  Hugh  cautiously  replied  in 
these  words : 

“  Why,  the  people  we  mean  to  visit  were  friends 
of  his  once  upon  a  time ;  and  I  know  that  much  of 
him  to  feel  pretty  sure  that  if  he  thought  we  were 
going  to  do  them  any  harm,  he’d  be  no  friend  to  our 
side,  but  would  lend  a  ready  hand  to  the  other.  So 
I’ve  persuaded  him  (for  I  know  him  of  old)  that  Lord 
George  has  picked  him  out  to  guard  this  place  to¬ 
morrow  while  we’re  away,  and  that  it’s  a  great  hon¬ 
or  ;  and  so  he’s  on  duty  now,  and  as  proud  of  it  as  if 
he  was  a  general.  Ha,  ha !  What  do  you  say  to  me 
for  a  careful  man  as  well  as  a  devil  of  a  one  ?” 

Mr.  Dennis  exhausted  himself  in  compliments,  and 
then  added, 

“  But  about  the  expedition  itself — ” 

•  “About  that,”  said  Hugh,  “  you  shall  hear  all  par¬ 
ticulars  from  me  and  the  great  captain  conjointly 
and  both  together — for  see,  he’s  waking  up.  Rouse 
yourself,  lion-heart.  Ha,  ha  !  Put  a  good  face  upon 
it,  and  drink  again.  Another  hair  of  the  dog  that  bit 
you,  captain!  Call  for  drink!  There’s  enough  of 
gold  and  silver  cups  and  candlesticks  buried  under¬ 
neath  my  bed,”  he  added,  rolling  back  the  straw  and 
pointing  to  where  the  ground  was  newly  turned,  “  to 
pay  for  it,  if  it  was  a  score  of  casksful.  Drink,  cap¬ 
tain  !” 

Mr.  Tappertit  received  these  jovial  promptings 
with  a  very  bad  grace,  being  much  the  worse,  both 
in  mind  and  body,  for  his  two  nights  of  debauch, 
and  but  indifferently  able  to  stand  upon  l*is  legs. 
With  Hugh’s  assistance,  however,  he  contrived  to 
stagger  to  the  pump ;  and  having  refreshed  himself 
with  an  abundant  draught  of  cold  water,  and  a  co¬ 
pious  shower  of  the  same  refreshing  liquid  on  his 
head  and  face,  he  ordered  some  rum  aud  milk  to  be 
served ;  and  upon  that  innocent  beverage  and  some 
biscuits  and  cheese  made  a  pretty  hearty  meal. 
That  done,  he  disposed  himself  in  an  easy  attitude 
on  the  ground  beside  his  two  companions  (who  were 
carousing  after  their  own  tastes),  and  proceeded  to 
enlighten  Mr.  Dennis  in  reference  to  to-morrow’s 
project. 

That  their  conversation  was  an  interesting  one, 
was  rendered  manifest  by  its  length,  and  by  the 
close  attention  of  all  three.  That  it  was  not  of  an 
oppressively  grave  character,  but  was  enlivened  by 
various  pleasantries  arising  out  of  the  subject,  was 
clear  from  their  loud  and  frequent  roars  of  laughter, 
which  startled  Barnaby  on  his  post,  and  made  him 
wonder  at  their  levity.  But  he  was  not  summoned 
to  join  them  until  they  had  eaten,  and  drunk,  and 
slept,  and  talked  together  for  some  hours ;  not,  in¬ 
deed,  until  the  twilight ;  when  they  informed  him 
that  they  were  about  to  make  a  slight  demonstra¬ 
tion  in  the  streets — just  to  keep  the  people’s  hands 
in,  as  it  was  Sunday  night,  aud  the  public  might  oth¬ 
erwise  be  disappointed — and  that  he  was  free  to  ac¬ 
company  them  if  he  would. 


RIOT  AND  DESTRUCTION. 


171 


Without  the  slightest  preparation,  saving  that 
they  carried  clubs  and  wore  the  blue  cockade,  they 
sallied  out  into  the  streets ;  and,  with  no  more  set¬ 
tled  design  than  that  of  doing  as  much  mischief  as 
they  could,  paraded  them  at  random.  Their  num¬ 
bers  rapidly  increasing,  they  soon  divided  into  par¬ 
ties  ;  and  agreeing  to  meet  by-and-by  in  the  fields 
near  Welbeck  Street,  scoured  the  town  in  various 
directions.  The  largest  body,  and  that  which  aug¬ 
mented  with  the  greatest  rapidity,  was  the  one  to 
which  Hugh  and  Barnaby  belonged.  This  took  its 
way  toward  Moorfields,  where  there  was  a  rich  chap¬ 
el,  and  iu  which  neighborhood  several  Catholic  fam¬ 
ilies  were  known  to  reside. 

Beginning  with  the  private  houses  so  occupied, 
they  broke  open  the  doors  and  windows ;  and  while 
they  destroyed  the  furniture  and  left  but  the  bare 
walls,  made  a  sharp  search  for  tools  aud  engines  of 
destruction,  such  as  hammers,  pokers,  axes,  saws, 
and  such  like  instruments.  Many  of  the  rioters 
made  belts  of  cord,  of  handkerchiefs,  or  any  mate¬ 
rial  they  found  at  hand,  and  wore  these  weapons  as 
openly  as  pioneers  upon  a  field-day.  There  was  not 
the  least  disguise  or  concealment — indeed,  on  this 
night,  very  little  excitement  or  hurry.  From  the 
chapels,  they  tore  down  and  took  away  the  very  al¬ 
tars,  benches,  pulpits,  pews,  and  flooring ;  from  the 
dwelling-houses,  the  very  wainscoting  and  stairs. 
This  Sunday  evening’s  recreation  they  pursued  like 
mere  workmen  who  had  a  certain  task  to  do,  and 
did  it.  Fifty  resolute  men  might  have  turned  them 
at  any  moment ;  a  single  company  of  soldiers  could 
have  scattered  them  like  dust ;  but  no  man  inter¬ 
posed,  no  authority  restrained  them,  aud,  except  by 
the  terrified  persons  who  fled  from  their  approach, 
they  were  as  little  heeded  as  if  they  were  pursuing 
their  lawful  occupations  with  the  utmost  sobriety 
and  good  conduct. 

In  the  same  manner,  they  marched  to  the  place 
of  rendezvous  agreed  upon,  made  great  fires  in  the 
fields,  and  reserving  the  most  valuable  of  their 
spoils,  burned  the  rest.  Priestly  garments,  images 
of  saints,  rich  stuffs  and  ornaments,  altar  furniture 
aud  household  goods,  were  cast  into  the  flames,  and 
shed  a  glare  on  the  whole  country  round ;  but  they 
danced  and  howled,  aud  roared  about  these  fires  till 
they  were  tired,  and  were  never  for  an  instant 
checked. 

As  the  main  body  filed  off  from  this  scene  of  ac¬ 
tion  and  passed  down  Welbeck  Street,  they  came 
upon  Gashford,who  had  been  a  witness  of  their  pro¬ 
ceedings,  and  was  walking  stealthily  along  the  pave¬ 
ment.  Keeping  up  with  him,  and  yet  not  seeming 
to  speak,  Hugh  muttered  in  his  ear: 

“  Is  this  better,  master  ?” 

“No,”  said  Gashford.  “It  is  not.” 

“What  would  you  have?”  said  Hugh.  “Fevers 
are  never  at  their  height  at  once.  They  must  get 
on  by  degrees.” 

“  I  would  have  you,”  said  Gashford,  pinching  his 
arm  with  such  malevolence  that  his  nails  seemed 
to  meet  in  the  skin;  “I  would  have  you  put  some 
meaning  into  your  work.  Fools!  Can  you  make 
no  better  bonfires  than  of  rags  and  scraps  ?  Can 
vou  burn  nothing  whole?” 

“A  little  patience,  master,”  said  Hugh.  “Wait 


but  a  few  hours,  and  you  shall  see.  Look  for  a  red¬ 
ness  in  the  sky  to-morrow  night.” 

With  that  he  fell  back  into  his  place  beside  Bar¬ 
naby  ;  and  when  the  secretary  looked  after  him, 
both  were  lost  in  the  crowd. 

- ♦ - 

CHAPTER  LIII. 

THE  next  day  was  ushered  iu  by  merry  peals  of 
bells,  and  by  the  firing  of  the  Tower  guns ;  flags 
were  hoisted  on  many  of  the  church  -  steeples ;  the 
usual  demonstrations  were  made  in  honor  of  the  an¬ 
niversary  of  the  King’s  birthday ;  and  every  man 
went  about  his  pleasure  or  business  as  if  the  city 
were  in  perfect  order,  and  there  were  no  half-smoul¬ 
dering  embers  in  its  secret  places,  Avhich,  on  the  ap¬ 
proach  of  night,  would  kindle  up  again  and  scatter 
ruin  and  dismay  abroad.  The  leaders  of  the  riot, 
rendered  still  more  daring  by  the  success  of  last- 
night  and  by  the  booty  they  had  acquired,  kept 
steadily  together,  and  only  thought  of  implicating 
the  mass  of  their  followers  so  deeply  that  no  hope 
of  pardon  or  reward  might  tempt  them  to  betray 
their  more  notorious  confederates  into  the  hands  of 
justice. 

Indeed,  the  sense  of  having  gone  too  far  to  be  for¬ 
given,  held  the  timid  together  no  less  than  the  bold. 
Many  who  would  readily  have  pointed  out  the  fore¬ 
most  rioters  and  given  evidence  against  them,  felt 
that  escape  by  that  means  was  hopeless,  when  their 
every  act  had  been  observed  by  scores  of  people  who 
had  taken  no  part  in  the  disturbances ;  who  had  suf¬ 
fered  in  their  persons,  peace,  or  property,  by  the  out¬ 
rages  of  the  mob ;  who  would  be  most  willing  wit¬ 
nesses  ;  and  whom  the  Government  would,  no  doubt, 
prefer  to  any  King’s  evidence  that  might  be  offered. 
Many  of  this  class  had  deserted  their  usual  occu¬ 
pations  on  the  Saturday  morning;  some  had  been 
seen  by  their  employers  active  in  the  tumult ;  oth¬ 
ers  knew  they  must  be  suspected,  and  that  they 
would  be  discharged  if  they  returned ;  others  had 
been  desperate  from  the  beginning,  and  comforted 
themselves  with  the  homely  proverb  that,  being 
hanged  at  all,  they  might  as  well  be  hanged  for  a 
sheep  as  a  lamb.  They  all  hoped  and  believed,  in 
a  greater  or  less  degree,  that  the  Government  they 
seemed  to  have  paralyzed  would,  in  its  terror,  come 
to  terms  with  them  in  the  end,  and  suffer  them  to 
make  their  own  conditions.  The  least  sanguine 
among  them  reasoned  -with  himself  that,  at  the 
worst,  they  were  too  many  to  be  all  punished,  and 
that  he  had  as  good  a  chance  of  escape  as  any  other 
man.  The  great  mass  never  reasoned  or  thought  at 
all,  but  were  stimulated  by  their  own  headlong  pas¬ 
sions,  by  poverty,  by  ignorance,  by  the  love  of  mis¬ 
chief,  and  the  hope  of  plunder. 

One  other  circumstance  is  worthy  of  remark  ;  and 
that  is,  that  from  the  moment  of  their  first  outbreak 
at  Westminster,  every  symptom  of  order  or  precon¬ 
certed  arrangement  among  them  vanished.  When 
they  divided  into  parties  aud  ran  to  different  quar¬ 
ters  of  the  town,  it  was  on  the  spontaneous  sugges¬ 
tion  of  the  moment.  Each  party  swelled  as  it  went 
along,  like  rivers  as  they  roll  toward  the  sea;  new 


172 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


leaders  sprang  up  as  they  were  wanted,  disappeared 
when  the  necessity  was  over,  and  re-appeared  at  the 
next  crisis.  Each  tumult  took  shape  and  form  from 
the  circumstances  of  the  moment;  sober  workmen, 
going  home  from  their  day’s  labor,  were  seen  to  cast 
dpwn  their  baskets  of  tools  and  become  rioters  in 
an  instant;  mere  boys  on  errands  did  the  like.  In 
a  word,  a  moral  plague  ran  through  the  city.  The 
noise,  and  hurry,  and  excitement  had  for  hundreds 
and  hundreds  an  attraction  they  had  no  firmness  to 
resist.  The  contagion  spread  like  a  dread  fever :  an 
infectious  madness,  as  yet  not  near  its  height,  seized 
on  new  victims  every  hour,  and  society  began  to 
tremble  at  their  ravings. 

It  was  between  two  and  three  o’clock  in  the  after¬ 
noon  when  Gashford  looked  into  the  lair  described 
in  the  last  chapter,  and  seeing  only  Barnaby  and 
Dennis  there,  inquired  for  Hugh. 

He  was  out,  Barnaby  told  him ;  had  gone  out 
more  tliap  an  hour  ago,  and  had  not  yet  returned. 

“Dennis!”  said  the  smiling  secretary,  in  his 
smoothest  voice,  as  he  sat  down  cross-legged  on  a 
barrel,  “Dennis!” 

The  hangman  struggled  into  a  sitting  posture  di¬ 
rectly,  and  with  his  eyes  wide  open,  looked  toward 
him. 

“  How  do  you  do,  Dennis  ?”  said  Gashford,  nod¬ 
ding.  “  I  hope  you  have  suffered  no  inconvenience 
from  your  late  exertions,  Denuis  ?” 

“  I  always  will  say  of  you,  Muster  Gashford,”  re¬ 
turned  the  hangman,  staring  at  him,  “  that  that  ’ere 
quiet  way  of  yours  might  almost  wake  a  dead  man. 
It  is,”  he  added,  with  a  muttered  oath — still  staring 
at  him  in  a  thoughtful  manner — “  so  awful  sly !” 

“  So  distinct,  eh,  Dennis  ?” 

“Distinct!”  he  answered,  scratching  his  head,  and 
keeping  his  eyes  upon  the  secretary’s  face ;  “  I  seem 
to  hear  it,  Muster  Gashford,  in  my  wery  bones.” 

“  I  am  very  glad  your  sense  of  hearing  is  so  sharp, 
and  that  I  succeed  in  making  myself  so  intelligible,” 
said  Gashford,  in  his  unvarying,  even  tone.  “  Where 
is  your  friend  ?” 

Mr.  Dennis  looked  round  as  in  expectation  of  be¬ 
holding  him  asleep  upon  his  bed  of  straw ;  then  re¬ 
membering  he  had  seen  him  go  out,  replied : 

“I  can’t  say  where  he  is,  Muster  Gashford,  I  ex¬ 
pected  him  back  afore  now.  I  hope  it  isn’t  time 
that  we  was  busy,  Muster  Gashford  ?” 

“  Nay,”  said  the  secretary,  “  who  should  know  that 
as  well  as  you  ?  How  can  I  tell  you,  Dennis  ?  You 
are  perfect  master  of  your  own  actions,  you  know, 
and  accountable  to  nobody — except  sometimes  to 
the  law,  eh  ?” 

Dennis,  who  was  very  much  baffled  by  the  cool 
matter-of-course  manner  of  this  reply,  recovered  his 
self-possession,  on  his  professional  pursuits  being  re¬ 
ferred  to,  and  pointing  toward  Barnaby,  shook  his 
head  and  frowned. 

“Hush!”  cried  Barnaby. 

“Ah!  Do  hush  about  that,  Muster  Gashford,” 
said  the  hangman,  in  a  low  voice,  “pop’lar  preju¬ 
dices — you  always  forget  —  well,  Barnaby,  my  lad, 
what’s  the  matter  ?” 

“I  hear  him  coming,”  he  answered:  “hark!  Do 
you  mark  that  ?  That’s  his  foot !  Bless  you,  I  know 
his  step,  and  his  dog’s  too.  Tramp,  tramp,  pit-pat, 


on  they  come  together,  and,  ha,  ha,  ha!  —  and  here 
they  are!”  he  cried,  joyfully  welcoming  Hugh  with 
both  hands,  and  then  patting  him  fondly  on  the 
back,  as  if  instead  of  being  the  rough  companion  he 
was,  he  had  been  one  of  the  most  prepossessing  of 
men.  “  Here  he  is,  and  safe  too !  I  am  glad  to  see 
him  back  again,  old  Hugh !” 

“  I’m  a  Turk  if  he  don’t  give  me  a  warmer  welcome 
always  than  any  man  of  sense,”  said  Hugh,  shaking 
hands  with  him  with  a  kind  of  ferocious  friendship 
strange  enough  to  see.  “ How  are  you,  boy?” 

“Hearty!”  cried  Barnaby,  waving  his  hat.  “Ha, 
ha,  ha !  And  merry  too,  Hugh  !  And  ready  to  do 
any  thing  for  the  good  cause,  and  the  right,  and  to 
help  the  kind,  mild,  pale-faced  gentleman — the  lord 
they  used  so  ill — eh,  Hugh  ?” 

“Ay !”  returned  his  friend,  dropping  his  hand,  and 
looking  at  Gashford  for  an  instant  with  a  changed 
expression  before  he  spoke  to  him.  “Good-day, 
master !” 

“And  good -day  to  you,”  replied  the  secretary, 
nursing  his  leg.  “And  many  good -days  —  whole 
years  of  them,  I  hope.  You  are  heated.” 

“  So  would  you  have  been,  master,”  said  Hugh, 
wiping  his  face,  “if  you’d  been  running  here  as  fast 
as  I  have.” 

“  You  know  the  news,  then  ?  Yes,  I  supposed  you 
would  have  heard  it.” 

“  News !  what  news  ?” 

“You  don’t?”  cried  Gashford,  raising  his  eyebrows 
with  an  exclamation  of  surprise.  “  Dear  me !  Come ; 
then  I  am  the  first  to  make  you  acquainted  with 
your  distinguished  position,  after  all.  Do  you  see 
the  King’s  Arms  atop  ?”  he  smilingly  asked,  as  he 
took  a  large  paper  from  his  pocket,  unfolded  it,  and 
held  it  out  for  Hugh’s  inspection.” 

“  Well !”  said  Hugh.  “  What’s  that  to  me  ?” 

“Much.  A  great  deal,”  replied  the  secretary. 
“  Head  it.” 

“I  told  you,  the  first  time  I  saw  you,  that  I 
couldn’t  read,”  said  Hugh,  impatiently.  “  What  in 
the  Devil’s  name’s  inside  of  it  ?” 

“It  is  a  proclamation  from  the  King  in  Council,” 
said  Gashford,  “  dated  to-day,  aud  offering  a  reward 
of  five  hundred  pounds — five  hundred  pounds  is  a 
great  deal  of  money,  and  a  large  temptation  to  some 
people — to  any  one  who  will  discover  the  person  or 
persons  most  active  in  demolishing  those  chapels  on 
Saturday  night.” 

“ Is  that  all?”  cried  Hugh,  with  an  indifferent  air. 
“  I  knew  of  that.” 

“Truly  I  might  have  known  you  did,”  said  Gash¬ 
ford,  smiling,  and  folding  up  the  document  again. 
“Your  friend,  I  might  have  guessed — indeed  I  did 
guess — was  sure  to  tell  you.” 

“  My  friend !”  stammered  Hugh,  with  an  unsuc¬ 
cessful  effort  to  appear  surprised.  “  What  friend  ?” 

“Tut,  tut — do  you  suppose  I  don’t  know  where 
you  have  been  ?”  retorted  Gashford,  rubbing  his 
hands,  and  beating  the  back  of  one  on  the  palm  of 
the  other,  and  looking  at  him  with  a  cunning  eye. 
“  How  dull  you  think  me !  Shall  I  say  his  name  ?” 

“No,”  said  Hugh,  with  a  hasty  glance  toward 
Dennis. 

“  You  have  also  heard  from  him,  no  doubt  ”  re¬ 
sumed  the  secretary,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  “that 


THE  SECRETARY  PREPARES  HIS  REVENGE. 


173 


the  rioters  who  have  been  taken  (poor  fellows)  are 
committed  for  trial,  and  that  some  very  active  wit¬ 
nesses  have  had  the  temerity  to  appear  against  them. 
Among  others — ”  and  here  he  clenched  his  teeth  as 
if  he  would  suppress  by  force  some  violent  words 
that  rose  upon  his  tongue,  and  spoke  very  slowly. 
“Among  others,  a  gentleman  who  saw  the  work  go¬ 
ing  on  in  Warwick  Street;  a  Catholic  gentleman; 
one  Haredale.” 

Hugh  would  have  prevented  his  uttering  the  word, 
but  it  was  out  already.  Hearing  the  name,  Barna- 
by  turned  swiftly  round. 

“Duty,  duty,  bold  Barnaby!”  cried  Hugh,  assum¬ 
ing  his  wildest  and  most  rapid  manner,  and  thrust¬ 
ing  into  his  hand  his  staff  and  flag,  which  leaned 
against  the  wall.  “Mount  guard  without  loss  of 
time,  for  we  are  off  upon  our  expedition.  Up,  Den¬ 
nis,  and  get  ready!  Take  care  that  no  one  turns 
the  straw  upon  my  bed,  brave  Barnaby ;  we  know 
what’s  underneath  it  —  eh?  Now,  master,  quick! 
What  you  have  to  say  say  speedily;  for  the  little 
captain  and  a  cluster  of  ’em  are  in  the  fields,  and 
only  waiting  for  us.  Sharp’s  the  word,  and  strike’s 
the  action.  Quick !” 

Barnaby  was  not  proof  against  this  bustle  and 
dispatch.  The  look  of  mingled  astonishment  and 
auger  which  had  appeared  in  his  face  when  he  turn¬ 
ed  toward  them,  faded  from  it  as  the  words  passed 
from  his  memory,  like  breath  from  a  polished  mir¬ 
ror;  and  grasping  the  weapon  which  Hugh  forced 
upon  him,  he  proudly  took  his  station  at  the  door 
beyond  their  hearing. 

“  You  might  have  spoiled  our  plans,  master,”  said 
Hugh.  “ You ,  too,  of  all  men!” 

“  Who  would  have  supposed  that  he  would  be  so 
quick  ?”  urged  Gashford. 

“He’s  as  quick  sometimes — I  don’t  mean  with  his 
hands,  for  that  you  know,  but  with  his  head — as 
you  or  any  man,”  said  Hugh.  “  Dennis,  it’s  time  we 
were  going;  they’re  waiting  for  us;  I  came  to  tell 
you.  Reach  me  my  stick  and  belt.  Here!  Lend 
a  hand,  master.  Fling  this  over  my  shoulder,  and 
buckle  it  behind,  will  you  ?” 

“Brisk  as  ever!”  said  the  secretary,  adjusting  it 
for  him  as  he  desired. 

“A  man  need  be  brisk  to-day;  there’s  brisk  work 
afoot.” 

“  There  is,  is  there  ?”  said  Gashford.  He  said  it 
with  such  a  provoking  assumption  of  ignorance,  that 
Hugh,  looking  over  his  shoulder  and  angrily  down 
upon  him,  replied : 

“  Is  there  ?  You  know  there  is !  Who  knows  bet¬ 
tor  than  yofi,  master,  that  the  first  great  step  to  be 
taken  is  to  make  examples  of  these  witnesses,  and 
frighten  all  men  from  appearing  against  us,  or  any 
of  our  body,  any  more  ?” 

“There’s  one  we  know  of,”  returned  Gashford, 
with  an  expressive  smile,  “  who  is  at  least  as  well 
informed  upon  that  subject  as  you  or  I.” 

“  If  we  mean  the  same  gentleman,  as  I  suppose  we 
do,”  Hugh  rejoined,  softly,  “I  tell  you  this — he’s  as 
good  and  quick  information  about  every  thing  as — ” 
here  he  paused  and  looked  round,  as  if  to  make  quite 
sure  that  the  person  in  question  was  not  within  hear-  • 
ing — “as  Old  Nick  himself.  Have  you  done,  that, 
master  ?  How  slow  you  are !” 


“It’s  quite  fast  now,”  said  Gashford,  rising.  “I 
say — you  didn’t  find  that  your  friend  disapproved  of 
to-day’s  little  expedition  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !  It  is  fortu¬ 
nate  it  jumps  so  well  with  the  witness’s  policy;  for, 
once  planned,  it  must  have  been  carried  out.  And 
now  you  are  going,  eh?” 

“  Now  we  are  going,  master !”  Hugh  replied.  “  Any 
parting  words?” 

“  Oh  dear,  no,”  said  Gashford,  sweetly.  “  None !” 

“  You’re  sure  ?”  cried  Hugh,  nudging  the  grinning 
Dennis. 

“  Quite  sure,  eh,  Muster  Gashford  ?”  chuckled  the 
hangman. 

Gashford  paused  a  moment,  struggling  with  his 
caution  and  his  malice ;  then  putting  himself  be¬ 
tween  the  two  men,  and  laying  a  hand  upon  the  arm 
of  each,  said,  in  a  cramped  whisper  : 

“  Do  not,  my  good  friends — I  am  sure  you  will  not 
— forget  our  talk  one  night — in  your  house,  Dennis 
— about  this  person.  No  mercy,  no  quarter,  no  two 
beams  of  his  house  to  be  left  standing  where  the 
builder  placed  them !  Fire,  the  saying  goes,  is  a 
good  servant,  but  a  bad  master.  Make  it  his  master ; 
he  deserves  no  better.  But  I  am  sure  you  will  be 
firm,  I  am  sure  you  will  be  very  resolute,  I  am  sure 
you  will  remember  that  he  thirsts  for  your  lives,  and 
those  of  all  your  brave  companions.  If  you  ever 
acted  like  staunch  fellows,  you  will  do  so  to-day. 
Won’t  you,  Dennis — won’t  you,  Hugh?” 

The  two  looked  at  him,  and  at  each  other ;  then 
bursting  into  a  roar  of  laughter,  brandished  their 
staves  above  their  heads,  shook  hands,  and  hurried 
out. 

When  they  had  been  gone  a  little  time,  Gashford 
followed.  They  were  yet  in  sight,  and  hastening  to 
that  part  of  the  adjacent  fields  in  which  their  fel¬ 
lows  had  already  mustered ;  Hugh  was  looking  back, 
and  flourishing  his  hat  to  Barnaby,  who,  delighted 
with  his  trust,  replied  in  the  same  way,  and  then  re¬ 
sumed  his  pacing  up  and  down  before  the  stable 
door,  where  his  feet  had  worn  a  path  already.  And 
when  Gashford  himself  was  far  distant,  and  looked 
back  for  the  last  time,  he  was  still  walking  to  and 
fro  with  the  same  measured  tread ;  the  most  devoted 
and  the  blithest  champion  that  ever  maintained  a 
post,  and  felt  his  heart  lifted  up  with  a  brave  sense 
of  duty,  and  determination  to  defend  it  to  the  last. 

Smiling  at  the  simplicity  of  the  poor  idiot,  Gash¬ 
ford  betook  himself  to  Welbeck  Street  by  a  differ¬ 
ent  path  from  that  which  he  knew  the  rioters  would 
take,  and  sitting  down  behind  a  curtain  in  one  of 
the  upper  windows  of  Lord  George  Gordon’s  house, 
waited  impatiently  for  their  coming.  They  were  so 
long,  that  although  he  knew  it  had  been  settled  they 
should  come  that  way,  he  had  a  misgiving  they  must 
have  changed  their  plans  and  taken  some  other  route. 
But  at  length  the  roar  of  voices  was  heard  in  the 
neighboring  fields,  and  soon  afterward  they  came 
thronging  past,  in  a  great  body. 

However,  they  were  not  all,  nor  nearly  all,  in  one 
body,  but  were,  as  he  soon  found,  divided  into  four 
parties,  each  of  which  stopped  before  the  house  to 
give  three  cheers,  and  then  went  on  ;  the  leaders  cry¬ 
ing  out  in  what  direction  they  were  going,  and  call¬ 
ing  on  the  spectators  to  join  them.  The  first  detach¬ 
ment,  carrying,  by  way  of  banners,  some  relics  of  the 


174 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


liavoc  they  had  made  in  Moorfields,  proclaimed  that 
they  were  on  their  way  to  Chelsea,  whence  they 
would  return  in  the  same  order,  to  make  of  the  spoil 
they  bore,  a  great  bonfire,  near  at  hand.  The  second 
gave  out  that  they  were  bound  for  Wapping,  to  de¬ 
stroy  a  chapel ;  the  third,  that  their  place  of  destina¬ 
tion  was  East  Smithfield,  and  their  object  the  same. 
All  this  was  done  in  broad,  bright,  summer  day. 
Gay  carriages  and  chairs  stopped  to  let  them  pass,  or 
turned  back  to  avoid  them ;  people  on  foot  stood 
aside  in  door-ways,  or  perhaps  knocked  and  begged 
permission  to  stand  at  a  window,  or  in  the  hall,  un¬ 
til  the  rioters  had  passed :  but  nobody  interfered 
with  them ;  and  when  they  had  gone  by,  every  thing 
went  on  as  usual. 

There  still  remained  the  fourth  body,  and  for  that 
the  secretary  looked  with  a  most  intense  eagerness. 
At  last  it  came  up.  It  was  numerous,  and  composed 
of  picked  men  ;  for  as  he  gazed  down  among  them, 
he  recognized  many  upturned  faces  which  he  knew 
well  —  those  of  Simon  Tappertit,  Hugh,  and  Dennis 
in  the  front,  of  course.  They  halted  and  cheered,  as 
the  others  had  done  ;  but  when  they  moved  again, 
they  did  not,  like  them,  proclaim  what  design  they 
had.  Hugh  merely  raised  his  hat  upon  the  bludgeon 
he  carried,  and  glancing  at  a  spectator  on  the  oppo¬ 
site  side  of  the  way,  was  gone. 

Gashford  followed  the  direction  of  his  glance  in¬ 
stinctively,  and  saw  standing  on  the  pavement,  and 
wearing  the  blue  cockade,  Sir  John  Chester.  He 
held  his  hat  an  inch  or  two  above  his  head  to  propi¬ 
tiate  the  mob ;  aud,  resting  gracefully  on  his  cane, 
smiling  pleasantly,  and  displaying  his  dress  and  per¬ 
son  to  the  very  best  advantage,  looked  on  in  the 
most  tranquil  state  imaginable.  For  all  that,  and 
quick  and  dexterous  as  he  was,  Gashford  had  seen 
him  recognize  Hugh  with  the  air  of  a  patron.  He 
had  no  longer  any  eyes  for  the  crowd,  but  fixed  his 
keen  regards  upon  Sir  John. 

He  stood  in  the  same  place  and  posture  until  the 
last  man  in  the  concourse  had  turned  the  corner  of 
the  street ;  then  very  deliberately  took  the  blue  cock¬ 
ade  out  of  his  hat ;  put  it  carefully  in  his  pocket, 
ready  for  the  next  emergency ;  refreshed  himself 
with  a  pinch  of  snuff;  put  up  his  box;  and  was 
walking  slowly  off,  when  a  passing  carriage  stopped, 
and  a  lady’s  hand  let  down  the  glass.  Sir  John’s 
hat  was  off  again  immediately.  After  a  minute’s 
conversation  at  the  carriage  -  window,  in  which  it 
was  apparent  that  he  was  vastly  entertaining  on  the 
subject  of  the  mob,  he  stepped  lightly  in,  and  was 
driven  away. 

The  secretary  smiled,  but  he  had  other  thoughts 
to  dwell  upon,  and  soon  dismissed  the  topic.  Din¬ 
ner  was  brought  him,  but  he  sent  it  down  untasted  ; 
and  in  restless  pacings  up  and  down  the  room,  and 
constant  glances  at  the  clock,  and  many  futile  efforts 
to  sit  down  and  read,  or  go  to  sleep,  or  look  out  of 
the  window,  consumed  four  weary  hours.  When  the 
dial  told  him  thus  much  time  had  crept  away,  he 
stole  up  stairs  to  the  top  of  the  house,  and  coming 
out  upon  the  roof,  sat  down,  with  his  face  toward 
the  east. 

Heedless  of  the  fresh  air  that  blew  upon  his  heat¬ 
ed  brow,  of  the  pleasant  meadows  from  which  he 
turned,  of  the  piles  of  roofs  and  chimneys  upon  which 


he  looked,  of  the  smoke  and  rising  mist  he  vainly 
sought  to  pierce,  of  the  shrill  cries  of  children  at 
their  evening  sports,  the  distant  hum  and  turmoil 
of  the  town,  the  cheerful  country  breath  that  rus¬ 
tled  past  to  meet  it,  and  to  droop,  and  die ;  he 
watched,  and  watched,  till  it  was  dark — save  for 
the  specks  of  light  that  twinkled  in  the  streets  be¬ 
low  and  far  away — and,  as  the  darkness  deepened, 
strained  his  gaze,  and  grew  more  eager  yet. 

“  Nothing  but  gloom  in  that  direction  still !”  he 
muttered,  restlessly.  “  Dog !  where  is  the  redness 
in  the  sky  you  promised  me  ?” 

- - 

CHAPTER  LIV. 

RUMORS  of  the  prevailing  disturbances  had  by 
this  time  begun  to  be  pretty  generally  circu¬ 
lated  through  the  towns  and  villages  round  London, 
and  the  tidings  were  everywhere  received  with  that 
appetite  for  the  marvelous  and  love  of  the  terrible 
which  have  probably  been  among  the  natural  char¬ 
acteristics  of  mankind  since  the  creation  of  the 
world.  These  accounts,  however,  appeared,  to  many 
persons  at  that  day  —  as  they  would  to  us  at  the 
present,  but  that  we  know  them  to  be  matter  of  his¬ 
tory —  so  monstrous  and  improbable,  that  a  great 
number  of  those  who  were  resident  at  a  distance,  and 
who  were  credulous  enough  on  other  points,  were 
really  unable  to  bring  their  minds  to  believe  that 
such  things  could  be ;  and  rejected  the  intelligence 
they  received  on  all  hands,  as  wholly  fabulous  and 
absurd. 

Mr.  Willet — not  so  much,  perhaps,  on  account  of 
his  having  argued  and  settled  the  matter  with  him¬ 
self,  as  by  reason  of  his  constitutional  obstinacy — 
was  one  of  those  who  positively  refused  to  entertain 
the  current  topic  for  a  moment.  On  this  very  even¬ 
ing,  and  perhaps  at  the  very  time  when  Gashford 
kept  his  solitary  watch,  old  John  was  so  red  in  the 
face  with  perpetually  shaking  his  head  in  contradic¬ 
tion  of  his  three  ancient  cronies  and  pot -compan¬ 
ions,  that  he  was  quite  a  phenomenon  to  behold,  aud 
lighted  up  the  Maypole  Porch  wherein  they  sat  to¬ 
gether,  like  a  monstrous  carbuncle  in  a  fairy  tale. 

“  Do  you  think,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  looking  hard 
at  Solomon  Daisy — for  it  was  his  custom  in  cases  of 
personal  altercation  to  fasten  upon  the  smallest  man 
in  the  party — “  do  you  think,  sir,  that  I’m  a  born 
fool?” 

“No,  no,  Johnny,”  returned  Solomon,  looking 
round  upon  the  little  circle  of  which  he  formed  a 
part;  “we  all  know  better  than  that.  You’re  no 
fool,  Johnny.  No,  no  !” 

Mr.  Cobb  and  Mr.  Parkes,  shook  their  heads  in  uni¬ 
son,  muttering,  “  No,  no,  Johnny,  not  you !”  But  as 
such  compliments  had  usually  the  effect  of  making 
Mr.  Willet  rather  more  dogged  than  before,  he  sur¬ 
veyed  them  with  a  look  of  deep  disdain,  and  returned 
for  answer : 

“Then  what  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  and 
telling  me  that  this  evening  you’re  agoing  to  walk 
up  to  London  together — you  three — you — and  have 
the  evidence  of  your  own  senses  ?  An’t,”  said  Mr. 
Willet,  putting  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  with  an  air 


THE  MAYPOLE  ORACLE. 


175 


of  solemn  disgust,  “  an’t  the  evidence  of  my  seuses 
enough  for  you  ?” 

“  But  we  haven’t  got  it,  Johnny,”  pleaded  Parkes, 
humbly. 

“You  haven’t  got  it, sir?”  repeated  Mr. Willet, ey¬ 
ing  him  from  top  to  toe.  “  You  haven’t  got  it,  sir? 
You  have  got  it,  sir.  Don’t  I  tell  you  that  his  blessed 
Majesty  King  George  the  Third  would  no  more  stand 
a  rioting  and  rollicking  in  his  streets,  than  he’d  stand 
being  crowed  over  by  his  own  Parliament?” 

“Yes,  Johnny,  but  that’s  your  sense — not  your 
senses,”  said  the  adventurous  Mr.  Parkes. 

“  How  do  you  know,”  retorted  John,  with  great 
dignity.  “You’re  a  contradicting  pretty  free,  you 
are,  sir.  How  do  you  know  which  it  is  ?  I’m  not 
aware  I  ever  told  you,  sir.” 

Mr.  Parkes,  finding  himself  in  the  position  of  hav¬ 
ing  got  into  metaphysics  without  exactly  seeing  his 
way  out  of  them,  stammered  forth  an  apology  and 
retreated  from  the  argument.  There  then  ensued  a 
silence  of  some  ten  minutes  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour, 
at  the  expiration  of  which  period  Mr.  Willet  was 
observed  to  rumble  and  shake  with  laughter,  and 
presently  remarked,  in  reference  to  his  late  adver¬ 
sary,  “that  he  hoped  he  had  tackled  him  enough.” 
Thereupon  Messrs.  Cobb  and  Daisy  laughed,  and 
nodded,  and  Parkes  was  looked  upon  as  thoroughly 
and  effectually  put  down. 

“Do  you  suppose  if  all  this  was  true,  that  Mr. 
Haredale  would  be  constantly  away  from  home,  as 
he  is  ?”  said  John,  after  another  silence.  “  Do  you 
think  he  wouldn’t  be  afraid  to  leave  his  house  with 
them  two  young  women  in  it,  and  only  a  couple  of 
men  or  so  ?” 

“Ay,  but  then  you  knowr,”  returned  Solomon  Dai¬ 
sy,  “  his  house  is  a  goodish  way  out  of  London,  and 
they  do  say  that  the  rioters  won’t  go  more  than  two 
mile,  or  three  at  the  farthest,  off  the  stones.  Be¬ 
sides,  you  know,  some  of  the  Catholic  gentlefolks 
have  actually  sent  trinkets  and  such -like  down  here 
for  safety — at  least,  so  the  story  goes.” 

“  The  story  goes !”  said  Mr.  Willet,  testily.  “  Yes, 
sir.  The  story  goes  that  you  saw  a  ghost  last  March. 
But  nobody  believes  it.” 

“Well !”  said  Solomon,  risiug,  to  divert  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  his  two  friends,  who  tittered  at  this  retort : 
“believed  or  disbelieved,  it’s  true  ;  and  true  or  not, 
if  we  mean  to  go  to  London,  we  must  be  going  at 
once.  So  shake  hands,  Johnny,  and  good-night.” 

“  I  shall  shake  hands,”  returued  the  landlord,  put¬ 
ting  his  into  his  pockets,  “  with  no  man  as  goes  to 
London  on  such  nonsensical  errands.” 

The  three  cronies  were  therefore  reduced  to  the 
necessity  of  shaking  his  elbows ;  haviug  performed 
that  ceremony,  and  brought  from  the  house  their 
hats,  and  sticks,  and  great -coats,  they  bade  him 
good-night  and  departed ;  promising  to  bring  him 
on  the  morrow  full  and  true  accounts  of  the  real 
state  of  the  city,  and  if  it  were  quiet,  to  give  him 
the  full  merit  of  his  victory. 

John  Willet  looked  after  them,  as  they  plodded 
along  the  road  in^tlie  rich  glow  of  a  summer  even¬ 
ing  ;  and  knocking  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  laugh¬ 
ed  inwardly  at  their  folly  until  his  sides  were  sore. 
When  he  bad  quite  exhausted  himself — which  took 
some  time,  for  he  laughed  as  slowly  as  he  thought 


and  spoke — ho  sat  himself  comfortably  with  his 
back  to  the  house,  put  his  legs  upon  the  bench,  then 
his  apron  over  his  face,  and  fell  sound  asleep. 

How  long  he  slept,  matters  not,  but  it  was  for  no 
brief  space;  for  when  he  awoke,  the  rich  light  had 
faded,  the  sombre  hues  of  night  were  falling  fast 
upon  the  landscape,  and  a  few  bright  stars  were  al¬ 
ready  twinkliug  overhead.  The  birds  were  all  at 
roost,  the  daisies  on  the  green  had  closed  their  fairy 
hoods,  the  honeysuckle  twiniug  round  the  porch  ex¬ 
haled  its  perfume  in  a  twofold  degree,  as  though  it 
lost  its  coyness  at  that  silent  time  and  loved  to  shed 
its  fragrance  on  the  night;  the  ivy  scarcely  stirred 
its  deep  green  leaves.  How  tranquil,  and  how  beau¬ 
tiful  it  was ! 

Was  there  no  sound  in  the  air  besides  the  gentle 
rustling  of  the  trees  and  the  grasshopper’s  merry 
chirp  ?  Hark !  Something  very  faint  and  distant, 
not  unlike  the  murmuring  in  a  sea-shell.  Now  it 
grew  louder,  fainter  now,  and  now  it  altogether  died 
awray.  Presently,  it  came  again,  subsided,  came  once 
more,  grew  louder,  fainter — swelled  into  a  roar.  It 
was  on  the  road,  and  varied  with  its  windings.  All 
at  once  it  burst  into  a  distinct  sound— the  voices, 
and  the  trarqping  feet  of  many  men. 

It  is  questionable  whether  old  John  Willet  even 
then  would  have  thought  of  the  rioters  but  for  the 
cries  of  his  cook  and  house-maid,  who  ran  screaming 
up  stairs  and  locked  themselves  into  one  of  the  old 
garrets — shrieking  dismally  when  they  had  done  so, 
by  way  of  rendering  their  place  of  refuge  perfectly 
secret  and  secure.  These  two  females  did  afterward 
depone  that  Mr.  Willet,  in  his  consternation,  uttered 
but  one  word,  and  called  that  up  the  stairs  in  a  sten¬ 
torian  voice  six  distinct  times.  But  as  this  word 
wTas  a  monosyllable,  which,  however  inoffensive  when 
applied  to  the  quadruped  it  denotes,  is  highly  repre¬ 
hensible  when  used  in  connection  with  females  of  un¬ 
impeachable  character,  many  persons  were  inclined 
to  believe  that  the  young  women  labored  under  some 
hallucination  caused  by  excessive  fear,  and  that  their 
ears  deceived  them. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  John  Willet,  in  whom  the  very 
uttermost  extent  of  dull-lieaded  perplexity  supplied 
the  place  of  courage,  stationed  himself  in  the  porch, 
and  waited  for  their  coming  up.  Once  it  dimly  oc¬ 
curred  to  him  that  there  was  a  kind  of  door  to  the 
house,  which  had  a  lock  and  bolts ;  and  at  the  same 
time  some  shadowy  ideas  of  shutters  to  the  lower 
windows  flitted  through  his  brain.  But  he  stood 
stock-still,  looking  down  the  road  in  the  direction 
in  which  the  noise  was  rapidly  advancing,  and  did 
not  so  much  as  take  his  hands  out  of  his  pockets. 

He  had  not  to  wait  long.  A  dark  mass,  looming 
through  a  cloud  of  dust,  soon  became  visible ;  the 
mob  quickened  their  pace ;  shouting  and  whooping 
like  savages,  they  came  rushing  on  pell-mell ;  and 
in  a  few  seconds  he  was  bandied  from  hand  to  hand 
in  the  heart  of  a  crowd  of  men. 

“  Halloo !”  cried  a  voice  he  knew,  as  the  man  who 
spoke  came  cleaving  through  the  throng.  “Where 
is  he?  Give  him  to  me.  Don’t  hurt  him.  How  now, 
old  Jack  ?  Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

Mr.  Willet  looked  at  him,  and  saw  it  was  Hugh ; 
but  he  said  nothing,  and  thought  nothing. 

“  These  lads  are  thirsty  and  must  drink,”  cried 


176 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


Hugh,  thrusting  him  hack  toward  the  house.  “  Bus¬ 
tle,  Jack,  bustle.  Show  us  the  best — the  very  best — 
the  over-proof  that  you  keep  for  your  own  drinking, 
Jack!” 

John  faintly  articulated  the  words,  “  Who’s  to 
pay  ?” 

“  He  says,  1  Who’s  to  pay  V  cried  Hugh,  with  a 
roar  of  laughter  which  Avas  loudly  echoed  by  the 
crowd.  Then  turning  to  John,  he  added,  “Pay! 
Why,  nobody.” 

John  stared  round  at  the  mass  of  faces  —  some 
grinning,  some  fierce,  some  lighted  up  by  torches, 
some  indistinct,  some  dusky  and  shadowy:  some 
looking  at  him,  some  at  his  house,  some  at  each  oth¬ 
er —  and  wffiile  he  was,  as  he  thought,  in  the  very 
act  of  doing  so,  found  himself,  without  any  con¬ 
sciousness  of  having  moved,  in  the  bar;  sitting 
down  in  an  arm-chair,  and  watching  the  destruction 
of  his  property,  as  if  it  were  some  queer  play  or  en-  , 
tertainment,  of  an  astonishing  and  stupefying  na¬ 
ture,  but  having  no  reference  to  himself — that  he 
could  make  out — at  all. 

Yes.  Here  was  the  bar — the  bar  that  the  boldest , 
never  entered  without  special  invitation — the  sanct¬ 
uary,  the  mystery,  the  hallowed  ground :  here  it 
was,  crammed  with  men,  clubs,  sticks,  torches,  pis¬ 
tols;  filled  with  a  deafening  noise,  oaths,  shouts, 
screams,  hootings ;  -changed  all  at  once  into  a  bear¬ 
garden,  a  mad-house,  an  infernal  temple  :  men  dart¬ 
ing  in  and  out,  by  door  and  window,  smashing  the 
glass,  turning  the  taps,  drinking  liquor  out  of  China 
punch-bowls,  sitting  astride  of  casks,  smoking  pri¬ 
vate  and  personal  pipes,  cutting  down  the  sacred 
grove  of  lemons,  hacking  and  hewing  at  the  celebra¬ 
ted  cheese,  breaking  open  inviolable  drawers,  put¬ 
ting  things  in  their  pockets  which  didn’t  belong  to 
them,  dividing  his  own  money  before  his  own  eyes, 
wantonly  wasting,  breaking,  pulling  down  and  tear¬ 
ing  up  :  nothing  quiet, nothing  private:  men  every¬ 
where — above,  below,  overhead,  in  the  bedrooms,  in 
the  kitchen,  in  the  yard,  in  the  stables — clambering 
in  at  windows  when  there  were  doors  wide  open ; 
dropping  out  of  windows  when  the  stairs  were 
handy ;  leaping  over  the  banisters  into  chasms  of 
passages :  new  faces  and  figures  presenting  them¬ 
selves  every  instant  —  some  yelling,  some  singing, 
some  fighting,  some  breaking  glass  and  crockery, 
some  laying  the  dust  with  the  liquor  they  couldn’t 
drink,  some  ringing  the  bells  till  they  pulled  them 
down,  others  beating  them  with  pokers  till  they 
beat  them  into  fragments:  more  men  still  —  more, 
more,  more — swarming  on  like  insects :  noise,  smoke, 
light,  darkness,  frolic,  anger,  laughter,  groans,  plun¬ 
der,  fear,  and  ruin! 

Nearly  all  the  time  while  John  looked  on  at  this 
bewidering  scene,  Hugh  kept  near  him ;  and  though 
he  was  the  loudest,  wildest,  most  destructive  villain 
there,  he  saved  his  old  master’s  bones  a  score  of 
times.  Nay,  even  when  Mr.  Tappertit,  excited  by 
liquor,  came  up,  and  in  assertion  of  his  prerogative 
politely  kicked  John  Willet  on  the  shins,  Hugh  bade 
him  return  the  compliment;  and  if  old  John  had 
had  sufficient  presence  of  mind  to  understand  this 
whispered  direction,  and  to  profit  by  it, he  might  no 
doubt,  under  Hugh’s  protection,  have  done  so  with 
inqmnity. 


At  length  the  band  began  to  re-assemble  outside 
the  house,  and  to  call  to  those  within  to  join  them, 
for  they  were  losing  time.  These  murmurs  increas¬ 
ing,  and  attaining  a  high  pitch,  Hugh,  and  some  of 
those  who  yet  lingered  in  the  bar,  and  who  plainly 
were  the  leaders  of  the  troop,  took  counsel  together 
apart,  as  to  what  was  to  be  done  with  John,  to  keep 
him  quiet  until  their  Chigwell  work  was  over. 
Some  proposed  to  set  the  house  on  fire  and  leave 
him  in  it ;  others,  that  he  should  be  reduced  to  a 
state  of  temporary  insensibility,  by  knocking  on  the 
head ;  others,  that  he  should  be  sworn  to  sit  where 
he  was  until  to-morrow  at  the  same  hour;  others, 
again,  that  he  should  be  gagged  and  taken  off  with 
them,  under  a  sufficient  guard.  All  these  proposi¬ 
tions  being  overruled,  it  was  concluded  at  last  to 
bind  him  in  his  chair,  and  the  word  was  passed  for 
Dennis. 

“Look’ee  here,  Jack!”  said  Hugh,  striding  up  to 
him:  “we  are  going  to  tie  you  hand  and  foot,  but 
otherwise  you  won’t  be  hurt.  D’ye  hear  ?” 

John  Willet  looked  at  another  man,  as  if  he  didn’t 
know  which  was  the  speaker,  and  muttered  some¬ 
thing  about  an  ordinary  every  Sunday  at  two 
o’clock. 

“You  won’t  be  hurt,  I  tell  you,  Jack — do  you  hear 
me?”  roared  Hugh,  impressing  the  assurance  upon 
him  by  means  of  a  heavy  blow  on  the  back.  “  He’s 
so  dead  scared,  lie’s  wool-gathering,  I  think.  Give 
him  a  drop  of  something  to  drink  here.  Hand  over,  , 
one  of  you.” 

A  glass  of  liquor  being  passed  forward,  Hugh 
poured  the  contents  down  old  John’s  throat.  Mr. 
Willet  feebly  smacked  his  lips,  thrust  his  hand  into 
his  pocket,  and  inquired  what  Avas  to  pay;  adding, 
as  he  looked  Aracantly  round,  that  he  believed  there 
was  a  trifle  of  broken  glass — 

“  He’s  out  of  his  senses  for  the  time,  it’s  my  be¬ 
lief,”  said  Hugh,  after  shaking  him,  without  any  vis¬ 
ible  effect  upon  his  system,  until  his  keys  rattled  in 
his  pocket. 

“  Where’s  that  Dennis  ?” 

The  word  was  again  passed,  and  presently  Mr. 
Dennis,  with  a  long  cord  bound  about  his  middle, 
something  after  the  manner  of  a  friar,  came  hurry¬ 
ing  in,  attended  by  a  body-guard  of  half  a  dozen  of 
his  men. 

“Come!  Be  alive  here!”  cried  Hugh,  stamping 
his  foot  upon  the  ground.  “Make  haste!” 

Dennis,  with  a  wink  and  a  nod,  unwound  the  cord 
from  about  his  person,  and  raising  his  eyes  to  the 
ceiling,  looked  all  over  it,  and  round  the  Avails  and 
cornice,  Avith  a  curious  eye ;  then  shook  his  head. 

“  Moa7o,  man,  can’t  you !”  cried  Hugh,  with  another 
impatient  stamp  of  his  foot.  “Are  we  to  wait  here 
till  the  cry  has  gone  for  ten  miles  round,  and  our 
work’s  interrupted  ?” 

“It’s  all  very  fine  talking,  brother,”  answered 
Dennis,  stepping  toward  him;  “but  unless”  —  aud 
here  he  whispered  in  his  ear — “  unless  we  do  it  OArer 
the  door,  it  can’t  be  done  at  all  in  this  here  room.” 

“  What  can’t  ?”  Hugh  demanded. 

“What  can’t!”  retorted  Dennis.  “Why,  the  old 
man  can’t.” 

“Why,  you  weren’t  going  to  hang  him!”  cried 
Hugh. 


THE  DOWNFALL  OF  THE  MAY-POLE. 


177 


“No,  brother?”  returned  the  hangman,  with  a 
stare.  “  What  else  ?” 

Hugh  made  no  answer,  but  snatching  the  rope 
from  his  companion’s  hand,  proceeded  to  bind  old 
John  himself;  but  his  very  first  move  was  so  bun¬ 
gling  and  unskillful,  that  Mr.  Dennis  entreated,  al¬ 
most  with  tears  in  his  eyes,  that  ho  might  be  per¬ 
mitted  to  perform  the  duty.  Hugh  consenting,  he 
achieved  it  in  a  twinkling. 

“There,”  he  said,  looking  mournfully  at  John 
Willet,  who  displayed  no  more  emotion  in  his  bonds 
than  he  had  shown  out  of  them.  “  That’s  what  I 
call  pretty  and  workman-like.  He’s  quite  a  picter 
now.  But,  brother,  just  a  word  with  you ;  now  that 
he’s  ready  trussed,  as  one  may  say,  wouldn’t  it  be 
better  for  all  parties  if  we  was  to  work  him  off?  It 
would  read  uncomlnon  well  in  the  newspapers — it 
would  indeed.  The  public  would  think  a  great  deal 
more  on  us !” 

Hugh,  inferring  what  his  companion  meant,  rath¬ 
er  from  his  gestures  than  his  technical  mode  of  ex¬ 
pressing  himself  (to  which,  as  he  was  ignorant  of 
his  calling,  he  wanted  the  clue),  rejected  this  propo¬ 
sition  for  the  second  time,  and  gave  the  word  “  For¬ 
ward  !”  which  was  echoed  by  a  hundred  voices  from 
without. 

“  To  the  Warren !”  shouted  Dennis  as  he  ran  out, 
followed  by  the  rest.  “A  witness’s  house,  my  lads!” 

A  loud  yell  followed,  and  the  whole  throng  hur¬ 
ried  off,  mad  for  pillage  and  destruction.  Hugh  lin¬ 
gered  behind  for  a  few  moments  to  stimulate  him¬ 
self  with  more  drink,  and  to  set  all  the  taps  running, 
a  few  of  which  had  accidentally  been  spared ;  then, 
glancing  round  the  despoiled  and  plundered  room, 
through  whose  shattered  window  the  rioters  had 
thrust  the  May-pole  itself — for.  even  that  had  been 
sawn  down — lighted  a  torch,  clapped  the  mute  and 
motionless  John  Willet  on  the  back,  and  waving  his 
light  above  his  head,  and  uttering  a  fierce  shout, 
hastened  after  his  companions. 


CHAPTER  LV. 

JOHN  WILLET,  left  alone  in  his  dismantled  bar, 
continued  to  sit  staring  about  him ;  awake  as  to 
his  eyes,  certainly,  but  with  all  his  powers  of  reason 
and  reflection  in  a  sound  and  dreamless  sleep.  He 
looked  round  upon  the  room  which  had  been  for 
years,  and  was  within  an  hour  ago,  the  pride  of  his 
heart,  and  not  a  muscle  of  his  face  was  moved.  The 
night,  without,  looked  black  and  cold  through  the 
dreary  gaps  in  the  casement ;  the  precious  liquids, 
now  nearly  leaked  away,  dripped  with  a  hollow 
sound  upon  the  floor ;  the  May-pole  peered  ruefully 
in  through  the  broken  window,  like  the  bowsprit 
of  a  wrecked  ship ;  the  ground  might  have  been  the 
bottom  of  the  sea,  it  was  so  strewn  with  precious 
fragments.  Currents  of  air  rushed  in,  as  the  old 
doors  jarred  and  creaked  upon  their  hinges ;  the 
candles  flickered  and  guttered  down,  and  made  long 
winding-sheets ;  the  cheery  deep-red  curtains  flap¬ 
ped  and  fluttered  idly  in  the  wind ;  even  the  stout 
Dutch  kegs,  overthrown  and  lying  empty  in  dark 
corners,  seemed  the  mere  husks  of  good  fellows 

12 


whose  jollity  had  departed,  and  who  could  kindle 
with  a  friendly  glow  no  more.  John  saw  this  deso¬ 
lation,  and  yet  saw  it  not.  He  was  perfectly  con¬ 
tented  to  sit  there,  staring  at  it,  and  felt  no  more 
indignation  or  discomfort  in  his  bonds  than  if  they 
had  been  robes  of  honor.  So  far  as  he  was  person¬ 
ally  concerned,  old  Time  lay  snoring,  and  the  world 
stood  still. 

Save  for  the  dripping  from  the  barrels,  the  rus¬ 
tling  of  such  light  fragments  of  destruction  as  the 
wind  affected,  and  the  dull  creaking  of  the  open 
doors,  all  was  profoundly  quiet:  indeed,  these  sounds, 
like  the  ticking  of  the  death-watch  in  the  night, 
only  made  the  silence  they  invaded  deeper  and  more 
apparent.  But  quiet  or  noisy,  it  was  all  one  to 
John.  If  a  train  of  heavy  artillery  could  have  come 
up  and  commenced  ball  practice  outside  the  win¬ 
dow,  it  would  have  been  all  the  same  to  him.  He 
was  a  long  way  beyond  surprise.  A  ghost  couldn’t 
have  overtaken  him. 

By-aud-by  he  heard  a  footstep  —  a  hurried,  and 
yet  cautious  footstep — coming  on  toward  the  house. 
It  stopped,  advanced  again,  then  seemed  to  go  quite 
round  it.  Having  done  that,  it  came  beneath  the 
window,  and  a  head  looked  in. 

It  was  strougly  relieved  against  the  darkness  out¬ 
side  by  the  glare  of  the  guttering  candles.  A  pale, 
worn,  withered  face;  the  eyes — but  that  was  ow¬ 
ing  to  its  gaunt  condition — unnaturally  large  and 
bright ;  the  hair,  a  grizzled  black.  It  gave  a  search¬ 
ing  glance  all  round  the  room,  and  a  deep  voice 
said, 

“Are  you  alone  in  this  house  ?” 

John  made  no  sign,  though  the  question  was  re¬ 
peated  twice,  and  he  heard  it  distinctly.  After  a 
moment’s  pause,  the  man  got  in  at  the  window. 
John  was  not  at  all  surprised  at  this  either.  There 
had  been  so  much  getting  in  and  out  of  window  in 
the  course  of  the  last  hour  or  so,  that  he  had  quite 
forgotten  the  door,  and  seemed  to  have  lived  among 
such  exercises  from  infancy. 

The  man  wore  a  large,  dark,  faded  cloak,  and  a 
slouched  hat ;  he  walked  up  close  to  John,  and  look¬ 
ed  at  him.  John  returned  the  compliment  with  in¬ 
terest. 

“ How  long  have  you  been  sitting  thus?”  said  the 
man. 

John  considered,  but  nothing  came  of  it. 

“  Which  way  have  the  party  gone  ?” 

Some  wandering  speculations  relative  to  the  fash¬ 
ion  of  the  stranger’s  boots  got  into  Mr.  Willet’s  mind 
by  some  accident  or  other,  but  they  got  out  again 
in  a  hurry,  and  left  him  in  his  former  state. 

“  You  would  do  well  to  speak,”  said  the  man : 
“you  may  keep  a  whole  skin,  though  you  have  noth¬ 
ing  else  left  that  can  be  hurt.  Which  way  have  the 
party  gone  ?” 

“That!”  said  John,  finding  his  voice  all  at  once, 
and  nodding  with  perfect  good  faith — he  couldn’t 
point ;  he  was  so  tightly  bound — in  exactly  the  op¬ 
posite  direction  to  the  right  one. 

“You  lie!”  said  the  man  angrily,  and  with  a 
threatening  gesture.  “I  came  that  way.  You 
would  betray  me.” 

It  was  so  evident  that  John’s  imperturbability 
was  not  assumed,  but  was  the  result  of  the  late 


178 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


proceedings  under  his  roof,  that  the  man  stayed  his 
hand  in  the  very  act  of  striking  him,  and  turned 
away. 

John  looked  after  him  without  so  much  as  a 
twitch  in  a  single  nerve  of  his  face.  He  seized  a 
glass,  and  holding  it  under  one  of  the  little  casks 
until  a  few  drops  were  collected,  drank  them  greedi¬ 
ly  olf ;  then  throwing  it  down  upon  the  floor  impa¬ 
tiently,  he  took  the  vessel  in  his  hands  and  drained 
it  into  his  throat.  Some  scraps  of  bread  and  meat 
were  scattered  about,  and  on  these  he  fell  next ;  eat¬ 
ing  them  with  voracity,  and  pausing  every  now  and 
then  to  listen  for  some  fancied  noise  outside.  When 
he  had  refreshed  himself  in  this  manner  with  vio¬ 
lent  haste,  and  raised  another  barrel  to  his  lips,  he 
pulled  his  hat  upon  his  brow  as  though  he  were 
about  to  leave  the  house,  and  turned  to  John. 

“  Where  are  your  servants  ?” 

Mr.  Willet  indistinctly  remembered  to  have  heard 
the  rioters  calling  to  them  to  throw*  the  key  of  the 
room  in  which  they  were  out  of  window,  for  their 
keeping.  He  therefore  replied,  u  Locked  up.” 

u  Well  for  them  if  they  remain  quiet,  and  well  for 
you  if  you  do  the  like,”  said  the  man.  “  Now  show 
me  the  way  the  party  went.” 

This  time  Mr.  Willet  indicated  it  correctly.  The 
man  was  hurrying  to  the  door,  when  suddenly  there 
came  toward  them  on  the  wind  the  loud  and  rapid 
tolling  of  an  alarm-bell,  and  then  a  bright  and  viv¬ 
id  glare  streamed  up,  -which  illumined,  not  only  the 
whole  chamber,  but  all  the  country. 

It  was  not  the  sudden  change  from  darkness  to 
this  dreadful  light,  it  was  not  the  sound  of  distant 
shrieks  and  shouts  of  triumph,  it  was  not  this  dread 
invasion  of  the  serenity  and  peace  of  night,  that 
drove  the  man  back  as  though  a  thunder-bolt  had 
struck  him.  It  -was  the  Bell.  If  the  ghastliest 
shape  the  human  mind  has  ever  pictured  in  its  wild¬ 
est  dreams  had  risen  up  before  him,  he  could  not 
have  staggered  backward  from  its  touch  as  he  did 
from  the  first  sound  of  that  loud  iron  voice.  With 
eyes  that  started  from  his  head,  his  limbs  convulsed, 
his  face  most  horrible  to  see,  he  raised  one  arm  high 
up  into  the  air,  and  holding  something  visionary 
back  and  down  with  his  other  hand  drove  at  it  as 
though  he  held  a  knife  and  stabbed  it  to  the  heart. 
He  clutched  his  hair,  and  stopped  his  ears,  and  trav¬ 
eled  madly  round  and  round ;  then  gave  a  frightful 
cry,  and  with  it  rushed  away:  still,  still,  the  Bell 
tolled  on  and  seemed  to  follow  him — louder  and 
louder,  hotter  and  hotter  yet.  The  glare  grew  bright¬ 
er,  the  roar  of  voices  deeper ;  the  crash  of  heavy  bod¬ 
ies  falling,  shook  the  air ;  bright  streams  of  sparks 
rose  up  into  the  sky ;  but  louder  than  them  all — ris¬ 
ing  faster  far,  to  Heaven — a  million  times  more  fierce 
and  furious — pouring  forth  dreadful  secrets  after  its 
long  silence  —  speaking  the  language  of  the  dead  — 
the  Bell — the  Bell ! 

What  hunt  of  spectres  could  surpass  that  dread 
pursuit  and  flight !  Had  there  been  a  legion  of  them 
on  his  track,  he  could  have  better  borne  it.  They 
would  have  had  a  beginning  and  an  end,  but  here  all 
space  was  full.  The  one  pursuing  voice  was  every¬ 
where  ;  it  sounded  in  the  earth,  the  air ;  shook  the 
long  grass,  and  howled  among  the  trembling  trees. 
The  echoes  caught  it  up,  the  owls  hooted  as  it  flew 


upon  the  breeze,  the  nightingale  was  silent  and  hid 
herself  among  the  thickest  boughs:  it  seemed  to 
goad  and  urge  the  angry  fire,  and  lash  it  into  mad¬ 
ness  ;  every  thing  was  steeped  in  one  prevailing  red ; 
the  glow  was  everywhere ;  nature  was  drenched  in 
blood :  still  the  remorseless  crying  of  that  awful 
voice — the  Bell — the  Bell ! 

It  ceased ;  but  not  in  his  ears.  The  knell  was  at 
his  heart.  No  work  of  man  had  ever  voice  like  that 
which  sounded  there,  and  warned  him  that  it  cried 
unceasingly  to  Heaven.  Who  could  hear  that  bell, 
and  not  know  what  it  said  ?  There  was  murder  in 
its  every  note — cruel,  relentless,  savage  murder — the 
murder  of  a  confiding  man  by  one  who  held  his  ev¬ 
ery  trust.  Its  ringing  summoned  phantoms  from 
their  graves.  What  face  was  that,  in  which  a  friend¬ 
ly  smile  changed  to  a  look  of  half-incredulous  hor¬ 
ror,  which  stiffened  for  a  moment  into  one  .of  pain, 
then  changed  again  into  an  imploring  glance  at 
Heaven,  and  so  fell  idly  down  with  upturned  eyes, 
like  the  dead  stags’  he  had  often  peeped  at  when  a 
little  child :  shrinking  and  shuddering — there  was  a 
dreadful  thing  to  think  of  now ! — and  clinging  to  an 
apron  as  he  looked !  He  sank  upon  the  ground,  and 
groveling  down  as  if  he  would  dig  himself  a  place 
to  hide  in,  covered  his  face  and  ears ;  but  no,  no,  no ; 
a  hundred  walls  and  roofs  of  brass  would  not  shut  out 
that  bell,  for  in  it  spoke  the  wrathful  voice  of  God, 
and  from  that  voice,  the  whole  wide  universe  could 
not  afford  a  refuge! 

While  he  rushed  up  and  down,  not  knowing  where 
to  turn,  and  while  he  lay  crouching  there,  the  work 
went  briskly  on  indeed.  When  they  left  the  May- 
pole  the  rioters  formed  into  a  solid  body,  and  ad¬ 
vanced  at  a  quick  pace  toward  the  Warren.  Rumor 
of  their  approach  having  gone  before,  they  found 
the  garden  doors  fast  closed,  the  windows  made  se¬ 
cure,  and  the  house  profoundly  dark:  not  a  light 
being  visible  in  any  portion  of  the  building.  After 
some  fruitless  ringing  at  the  bells,  and  beating  at 
the  iron  gates,  they  drew  off  a  few  paces  to  recon¬ 
noitre,  and  confer  upon  the  course  it  would  be  best 
to  take. 

Very  little  conference  was  needed,  when  all  were 
bent  upon  one  desperate  purpose,  infuriated  with  liq¬ 
uor,  and  flushed  with  successful  riot.  The  word  be¬ 
ing  given  to  surround  the  house,  some  climbed  the 
gates,  or  dropped  into  the  shallow  trench  and  scaled 
the  garden  wall,  while  others  pulled  down  the  solid 
iron  fence,  and  while  they  made  a  breach  to  enter 
by,  made  deadly  weapons  of  the  bars.  The  house 
being  completely  encircled,  a  small  number  of  men 
were  dispatched  to  break  open  a  tool-shed  in  the  gar¬ 
den  ;  and  during  their  absence  on  this  errand,  the 
remainder  contented  themselves  with  knocking  vio¬ 
lently  at  the  doors,  and  calling  to  those  within  to 
come  down  and  open  them  on  peril  of  their  lives. 

No  answer  being  returned  to  this  repeated  sum¬ 
mons,  and  the  detachment  who  had  been  sent  away 
coming  back  with  an  accession  of  pickaxes,  spades, 
and  hoes,  they,  together  with  those  who  had  such 
arms  already,  or  carried  (as  many  did)  axes,  poles, 
and  crowbars,  struggled  into  the  foremost  rank,  ready 
to  beset  the  doors  and  windows.  They  had  not  at 
this  time  more  than  a  dozen  lighted  torches  among 
them;  but  when  these  preparations  were  completed, 


SACKED  AND  PLUNDERED. 


179 


flaming  links  were  distributed  and  passed  from  band 
to  hand  with  such  rapidity  that,  in  a  minute’s  time, 
at  least  two-thirds  of  the  whole  roaring  mass  bore, 
each  man  in  his  hand,  a  blazing  brand.  Whirling 
these  about  their  heads,  they  raised  a  loud  shout,  and 
fell  to  work  upon  the  doors  and  windows. 

Amidst  the  clattering  of  heavy  blows,  the  rattling 
of  broken  glass,  the  cries  and  execrations  of  the 
mob,  and  all  the  din  and  turmoil  of  the  scene,  Hugh 
and  his  friends  kept  together  at  the  turret  door 
where  Mr.  Haredale  had  last  admitted  him  and  old 
John  Willet,  and  spent  their  united  force  on  that. 
It  was  a  strong  old  oaken  door,  guarded  by  good 
bolts  and  a  heavy  bar,  but  it  soon  went  crashing  in 
upon  the  narrow  stairs  behind,  and  made,  as  it  were, 
a  platform  to  facilitate  their  tearing  up  into  the 
rooms  above.  Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  dozen 
other  points  were  forced,  and  at  every  one  the  crowd 
poured  in  like  water. 

A  few  armed  servant-men  were  posted  in  the  hall, 
and  when  the  rioters  forced  an  entrance  there,  they 
fired  some  half  a  dozen  shots.  But  these  taking  no 
effect,  and  the  concourse  coming  on  like  an  army  of 
devils,  they  only  thought  of  consulting  their  own 
safety,  and  retreated,  echoing  their  assailants’  cries, 
and  hoping  in  the  confusion  to  be  taken  for  rioters 
themselves;  in  which  stratagem  they  succeeded,  with 
the  exception  of  one  old  man  who  was  never  heard 
of  again,  and  was  said  to  have  had  his  brains  beaten 
out  with  an  iron  bar  (one  of  his  fellows  reported 
that  he  had  seen  the  old  man  fall),  and  to  have  been 
afterward  burned  in  the  flames. 

The  besiegers  being  now  in  complete  possession 
of  the  house,  spread  themselves  over  it  from  gar¬ 
ret  to  cellar,  and  plied  their  demon  labors  fiercely. 
While  some  small  parties  kindled  bonfires  under¬ 
neath  the  windows,  others  broke  up  the  furniture 
aud  cast  the  fragments  down  to  feed  the  flames  be¬ 
low  ;  where  the  apertures  in  the  wall  (windows  no 
longer)  were  large  enough,  they  threw  out  tables, 
chests  of  drawers,  beds,  mirrors,  pictures,  and  flung 
them  whole  into  the  fire ;  while  every  fresh  addition 
to  the  blazing  masses  was  received  with  shouts,  and 
howls,  and  yells,  which  added  new  and  dismal  ter¬ 
rors  to  the  conflagration.  Those  who  had  axes  and 
had  spent  their  fury  on  the  movables,  chopped  and 
tore  down  the  doors  and  window  frames,  broke  up 
the  flooring,  hewed  away  the  rafters,  and  buried 
men  who  lingered  in  the  upper  rooms  in  heaps  of 
ruins.  Some  searched  the  drawers,  the  chests,  the 
boxes,  writing-desks,  and  closets,  for  jewels,  plate, 
and  money ;  while  others,  less  mindful  of  gain  and 
more  mad  for  destruction,  cast  their  whole  contents 
into  the  court-yard  without  examination,  and  call¬ 
ed  to  those  below  to  heap  them  on  the  blaze.  Men 
who  had  been  into  the  cellars,  and  had  staved  the 
casks,  rushed  to  and  fro  stark  mad,  setting  fire  to  all 
they  saw — often  to  the  dresses  of  their  own  friends 
— and  kindling  the  building  in  so  many  parts  that 
some  had  no  time  for  escape,  and  were  seen,  with 
drooping  hands  and  blackened  faces,  hanging  sense¬ 
less  on  the  window-sills  to  which  they  had  crawled, 
until  they  were  sucked  and  drawn  into  the  burning 
gulf.  The  more  the  fire  crackled  and  raged,  the 
wilder  and  more  cruel  the  men  grew;  as  though 
moving- in  that  element  they  became  fiends,  and 


changed  their  earthly  nature  for  the  qualities  that 
give  delight  in  hell. 

The  burning  pile,  revealing  rooms  and  passages 
red  hot,  through  gaps  made  in  the  crumbling  walls; 
the  tributary  fires  that  licked  the  outer  bricks  aud 
stones,  with  their  long  forked  tongues,  and  ran  up  to 
meet  the  glowing  mass  within ;  the  shining  of  the 
flames  upon  the  villains  who  looked  on  and  fed 
them  ;  the  roaring  of  the  angry  blaze,  so  bright  and 
high  that  it  seemed  in  its  rapacity  to  have  swallow¬ 
ed  up  the  very  smoke ;  the  living  flakes  the  wind 
bore  rapidly  away  and  hurried  on  with,  like  a  storm 
of  fiery  snow ;  the  noiseless  breaking  of  great  beams 
of  wood,  which  fell  like  feathers  on  the  heap  of  ash¬ 
es,  and  crumbled  in  the  Arery  act  to  sparks  and  pow¬ 
der;  the  lurid  tinge  that  OArerspread  the  sky,  and 
the  darkness,  very  deep  by  contrast,  which  prevailed 
around;  the  exposure  to  the  coarse,  common  gaze, 
of  every  little  nook  which  usages  of  home  had  made 
a  sacred  place,  and  the  destruction  by  rude  hands 
of  e\rery  little  household  favorite  which  old  associa¬ 
tions  made  a  dear  and  precious  thing:  all  this  tak¬ 
ing  place  —  not  among  pitying  looks  and  friendly 
murmurs  of  compassion,  but  brutal  shouts  and  ex¬ 
ultations,  Avhich  seemed  to  make  the  very  rats  who 
stood  by  the  old  house  too  long,  creatures  with  some 
claim  upon  the  pity  and  regard  of  those  its  roof  had 
sheltered —combined  to  form  a  scene  never  to  be  for¬ 
gotten  by  those  who  saw  it,  and  were  not  actors  in 
the  work,  so  long  as  life  endured. 

Aud  who  were  they?  The  alarm-bell  rang — and 
it  was  pulled  by  no  faint  or  hesitating  hands — for  a 
long  time;  but  not  a  soul  was  seen.  Some  of  the 
insurgents  said  that  when  it  ceased  they  heard  the 
shrieks  of  women,  and  saw  some  garments  fluttering 
in  the  air,  as  a  party  of  men  bore  away  no  unresist¬ 
ing  burdens.  No  one  could  say  that  this  was  true 
or  false,  in  such  an  uproar ;  but  where  was  Hugh  ? 
Who  among  them  had  seen  him,  since  the  forcing 
of  the  doors?  The  cry  spread  through  the  body. 
Where  Avas  Hugh ! 

“Here!”  he  hoarsely  cried,  appearing  from  the 
darkness ;  out  of  breath,  and  blackened  with  the 
smoke.  “We  haAre  done  all  we  can;  the  fire  is 
burning  itself  out;  and  even  the  corners  where  it 
hasn’t  spread  are  nothing  but  heaps  of  ruins.  Dis¬ 
perse,  my  lads,  while  the  coast’s  clear ;  get  back 
by  different  ways ;  and  meet  as  usual !”  With 
that,  he  disappeared  again  —  contrary  to  his  wont, 
for  he  was  ahvays  first  to  adArance,  and  last  to  go 
away  —  leaving  them  to  follow  homeward  as  they 
would. 

It  Avas  not  an  easy  task  to  draw  off  such  a  throng. 
If  Bedlam  gates  had  been  flung  open  wide,  there 
would  not  haAre  issued  forth  such  maniacs  as  the  fren¬ 
zy  of  that  night  had  made.  There  were  men  there 
who  danced  aud  trampled  on  the  beds  of  flowers  as 
though  they  trod  down  human  enemies,  and  Avrench- 
ed  them  from  the  stalks,  like  saA-ages  who  twisted 
human  necks.  There  were  men  Avho  cast  their  light¬ 
ed  torches  in  the  air,  and  suffered  them  to  fall  upon 
their  heads  and  faces,  blistering  the  skin  AAuth  deep, 
unseemly  burns.  There  were  men  Avho  rushed  up 
to  the  fire,  and  paddled  in  it  with  their  hands  as  if 
in  water ;  and  others  ayIio  were  restrained  by  force 
from  plunging  in,  to  gratify  their  deadly  longing. 


180 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


On  the  shall  of  one  drunken  lad — not  twenty,  by  his 
looks — who  lay  upon  the  ground  with  a  bottle  to 
his  mouth,  the  lead  from  the  roof  came  streaming 
down  in  a  shower  of  liquid  fire,  white  hot;  melting 
his  head  like  wax.  When  the  scattered  parties  were 
collected,  men — living  yet,  but  singed  as  with  hot 
irons — were  plucked  out  of  the  cellars,  and  carried 
off  upon  the  shoulders  of  others,  wdio  strove  to  wake 
them  as  they  went  along  with  ribald  jokes,  and  left 
them,  dead,  in  the  passages  of  hospitals.  But  of  all 
the  howling  throng  not  one  learned  mercy  from,  nor 
sickened  at,  these  sights ;  nor  was  the  fierce,  besot¬ 
ted,  senseless  rage  of  one  man  glutted. 

Slowly,  and  in  small  clusters,  with  hoarse  hurras 
and  repetitions  of  their  usual  cry,  the  assembly  drop¬ 
ped  away.  The  last  few  red-eyed  stragglers  reeled 
after  those  who  had  gone  before ;  the  distant  noise 
of  men  calling  to  each  other,  and  whistling  for  oth¬ 
ers  whom  they  missed,  grew  fainter  and  fainter ;  at 
length  even  these  sounds  died  away,  and  silence 
reigned  alone. 

Silence  indeed !  The  glare  of  the  flames  had  sunk 
into  a  fitful,  flashing  light ;  and  the  gentle  stars,  in¬ 
visible  till  now,  looked  down  upon  the  blackening 
heap.  A  dull  smoke  hung  upon  the  ruin,  as  though 
to  hide  it  from  those  eyes  of  Heaven ;  and  the  wind 
forbore  to  move  it.  Bare  walls,  roof  open  to  the 
sky — chambers,  where  the  beloved  dead  had,  many 
and  many  a  fair  day,  risen  to  new  life  and  energy ; 
where  so  many  dear  ones  had  been  sad  and  merry ; 
which  were  connected  with  so  many  thoughts  and 
hopes,  regrets  and  changes — all  gone.  Nothing  left 
but  a  dull  and  dreary  blank — a  smouldering  heap 
of  dust  and  ashes — the  silence  and  solitude  of  utter 
desolation. 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

THE  Maypole  cronies,  little  dreaming  of  the 
change  so  soon  to  come  upon  their  favorite 
haunt,  struck  through  the  Forest  path  upon  their 
way  to  Londou;  and  avoiding  the  main  road,  which 
was  hot  and  dusty,  kept  to  the  by-paths  and  the 
fields.  As  they  drew  nearer  to  their  destination, 
they  began  to  make  inquiries  of  the  people  whpm 
they  jiassed,  concerning  the  riots,  and  the  truth  or 
falsehood  of  the  stories  they  had  heard.  The  an¬ 
swers  went  far  beyond  any  intelligence  that  had 
spread  to  quiet  Chigwell.  One  man  told  them  that 
that  afternoon  the  Guards,  conveying  to  Newgate 
some  rioters  who  had  been  re-examined,  had  been  set 
upon  by  the  mob  and  compelled  to  retreat ;  another, 
that  the  houses  of  two  witnesses  near  Clare  Market 
were  about  to  be  pulled  down  when  he  came  away ; 
another,  that  Sir  George  Saville’s  house  in  Leicester 
Fields  was  to  be  burned  that  night,  and  that  it  would 
go  hard  with  Sir  George  if  he  fell  into  the  people’s 
hands,  as  it  was  he  who  had  brought  in  the  Catholic 
bill.  All  accounts  agreed  that  the  mob  were  out,  in 
stronger  numbers  and  more  numerous  parties  than 
had  yet  appeared ;  that  the  streets  were  unsafe,  that 
no  man’s  house  or  life  was  worth  an  hour’s  pur¬ 
chase  ;  that  the  public  consternation  was  increasing 
every  moment ;  and  that  many  families  had  already 
fled  the  city.  One  fellow  who  wore  the  popular 


color,  damned  them  for  not  having  cockades  in 
their  hats,  and  bade  them  set  a  good  watch  to-mor¬ 
row  night  upon  their  prison  doors,  for  the  locks 
would  have  a  straining;  another  asked  if  they  were 
fire-proof,  that  they  walked  abroad  without  the  dis¬ 
tinguishing  mark  of  all  good  and  true  men ;  and  a 
third,  who  rode  on  horseback,  and  was  quite  alone, 
ordered  them  to  throw  each  man  a  shilling,  in  his 
hat,  toward  the  support  of  the  rioters.  Although 
they  were  afraid  to  refuse  compliance  with  this  de¬ 
mand,  and  were  much  alarmed  by  these  reports^  they 
agreed,  having  come  so  far,  to  go  forward,  and  see 
the  real  state  of  things  with  their  own  eyes.  So 
they  pushed  on  quicker,  as  men  do  who  are  excited 
by  portentous  news;  and  ruminating  on  what  they 
had  heard,  spoke  little  to  each  other. 

It  was  now  night,  and  as  they  came  nearer  to  the 
city  they  had  dismal  confirmation  of  this  intelli¬ 
gence  in  three  great  fires,  all  close  together,  which 
burned  fiercely  and  wrere  gloomily  reflected  in  the 
sky.  Arriving  in  the  immediate  suburbs,  they  found 
that  almost  every  house  had  chalked  upon  its  door 
iu  large  characters  “No  Popery,”  that  the  shops 
were  shut,  and  that  alarm  and  anxiety  were  depict¬ 
ed  in  every  face  they  passed. 

Noting  these  things  with  a  degree  of  apprehen¬ 
sion  which  neither  of  the  three  cared  to  impart,  in 
its  full  extent,  to  his  companions,  they  came  to  a 
turnpike-gate,  which  was  shut.  They  were  passing 
through  the  turnstile  on  the  path,  when  a  horseman 
rode  up  from  London  at  a  hard  gallop,  and  called  to 
the  toll-keeper  in  a  voice  of  great  agitation  to  open 
quickly  in  the  name  of  God. 

The  adjuration  was  so  earnest  and  vehement,  that 
the  man,  wfith  a  lantern  iu  his  hand,  came  running 
out — toll-keeper  though  he  was — and  was  about  to 
throw  the  gate  open,  when  happening  to  look  be¬ 
hind  him,  he  exclaimed,  “  Good  Heaven,  what’s  that ! 
Another  fire !” 

At  this,  the  three  turned  their  heads,  and  saw  in 
the  distance — straight  iu  the  direction*whence  they 
had  come — a  broad  sheet  of  flame,  casting  a  threat¬ 
ening  light  upon  the  clouds,  which  glimmered  as 
though  the  conflagration  were  behind  them,  and 
showed  like  a  wrathful  sunset. 

“My  mind  misgives  me,”  said  the  horseman,  “or 
I  know  from  what  far  building  those  flames  come. 
Don’t  stand  aghast,  my  good  fellow.  Open  the  gate  !” 

“  Sir,”  cried  the  man,  laying  his  hand  upon  his 
horse’s  bridle  as  he  let  him  through,  “  I  know  you 
now,  sir ;  be  advised  by  me ;  do  not  go  on.  I  saw 
them  pass,  and  know  what  kind  of  men  they  are. 
You  will  be  murdered.” 

“So  be  it!”  said  the  horseman,  looking  intently 
toward  the  fire,  and  not  at  him  who  spoke. 

“  But  sir — sir,”  cried  the  man,  grasping  at  his  rein 
more  tightly  yet,  “  if  you  do  go  on,  wear  the  blue 
ribbon.  Here,  sir,”  he  added,  taking  one  from  his 
own  hat,  “it’s  necessity,  not  choice,  that  makes  me 
wear  it ;  it’s  love  of  life  and  home,  sir.  Wear  it  for 
this  one  night,  sir;  only  for  this  one  night.” 

“  Do !”  cried  the  three  friends,  pressing  round  his 
horse.  “Mr.  Haredale — worth}'  sir  —  good  gentle¬ 
man — pray  be  persuaded.” 

“  Who’s  that  ?”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  stooping  down 
to  look.  “  Did  I  hear  Daisy’s  voice  ?” 


SOLOMON  DAISY’S  GRIEF. 


% 


181 


“  You  did,  sir,”  cried  the  little  man.  “  Do  he  per¬ 
suaded,  sir.  This  gentleman  says  very  true.  Your 
life  may  hang  upon  it.” 

“Are  you,”  said  Mr.  Haredale  abruptly,  “afraid 
to  come  with  me  ?” 

“I,  sir?  N-n-no.” 

“  Put  that  ribbon  in  your  hat.  If  we  meet  the 
rioters,  swear  that  I  took  you  prisoner  for  wearing 
it.  I  will  tell  them  so  with  my  own  lips ;  for  as  I 
hope  for  mercy  when  I  die,  I  will  take  no  quarter 
from  them,  nor  shall  they  have  quarter  from  me,  if 
we  come  hand  to  hand  to-uiglit.  Up  here — behind 
me — quick!  Clasp  me  tight  round  the  body,  and 
fear  nothing.” 

In  an  instant  they  were  riding  away,  at  full  gal¬ 
lop,  in  a  dense  cloud  of  dust,  and  speediug  on,  like 
hunters  in  a  dream. 

It  was  well  the  good  horse  knew  the  road  he  trav¬ 
ersed,  for  never  once — no,  never  once  in  all  the  jour¬ 
ney — did  Mr.  Haredale  cast  his  eyes  upon  the  ground, 
or  turn  them,  for  an  instant,  from  the  light  toward 
which  they  sped  so  madly.  Once  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  “  It  is  my  house,”  but  that  was  the  only  time 
he  spoke.  When  they  came  to  dark  and  doubtful 
places,  he  never  forgot  to  put  his  hand  upon  the  lit¬ 
tle  man  to  hold  him  more  securely  in  his  seat,  but 
he  kept  his  head  erect  and  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  fire, 
then,  and  always. 

The  road  was  dangerous  enough,  for  they  went 
the  nearest  way — headlong — far  from  the  highway 
— by  lonely  lanes  and  paths,  where  wagon-wheels 
had  worn  deep  ruts ;  where  hedge  and  ditch  hemmed 
in  the  narrow  strip  of  ground ;  and  tall  trees,  arch¬ 
ing  overhead,  made  it  profoundly  dark.  But  on,  on, 
on,  with  neither  stop  nor  stumble,  till  they  reached 
the  Maypole  door,  and  could  plainly  see  that  the  fire 
began  to  fade,  as  if  for  want  of  fuel. 

“  Down — for  one  moment — for  but  one  moment,” 
said  Mr.  Haredale,  helping  Daisy  to  the  ground,  and 
following  himself.  “Willet — Willet — where  are 
my  niece  and  servants — Willet!” 

Crying  to  him  distractedly,  he  rushed  into  the 
bar.  The  landlord  bound  and  fastened  to  his  chair ; 
the  place  dismantled,  stripped,  and  pulled  about  his 
ears ;  nobody  could  have  taken  shelter  here. 

He  was  a  strong  man,  accustomed  to  restrain  him¬ 
self,  and  suppress  his  strong  emotions ;  but  this  prep¬ 
aration  for  what  was  to  follow — though  he  had  seen 
that  fire  burning,  and  knew  that  his  house  must  be 
razed  to  the  ground — was  more  than  he  could  bear. 
He  covered  his  face  with  his  hands  for  a  moment, 
and  turned  away  his  head. 

“Johnny,  Johnny,”  said  Solomon  —  and  the  sim¬ 
ple-hearted  fellow  cried  outright,  and  wrung  his 
hands  —  “  Oh,  dear  old  Johnny,  here’s  a  change! 
That  the  Maypole  bar  should  come  to  this,  and  we 
should  live  to  see  it !  The  old  Warren  too,  Johnny 
— Mr.  Haredale — oh,  Johnny,  what  a  piteous  sight 
this  is !” 

Pointing  to  Mr.  Haredale  as  he  said  these  words, 
little  Solomon  Daisy  put  his  elbows  on  the  back 
of  Mr.  Willet’s  chair,  and  fairly  blubbered  on  his 
shoulder. 

While  Solomon  was  speaking,  old  John  sat,  mute 
as  a  stock -fish,  staring  at  him  with  an  unearthly 
glare,  and  displaying,  by  every  possible  symptom, 


entire  and  complete  unconsciousness.  But  when 
Solomon  was  silent  again,  John  followed,  with  his 
great  round  eyes,  the  direction  of  his  looks,  and  did 
appear  to  have  some  dawning  distant  notion  that 
somebody  had  come  to  see  him. 

“You  know  us,  don’t  you,  Johnny?”  said  the  lit¬ 
tle  clerk,  rapping  himself  on  the  breast.  “  Daisy, 
you  know — Chigwell  Church — bell-ringer — little 
desk  on  Sundays — eh,  Johnny  ?” 

Mr.  Willet  reflected  for  a  few  moments,  and  then 
muttered,  as  it  were  mechanically:  “Let  us  sing  to 
the  praise  and  glory  of — ” 

“  Yes,  to  be  sure,”  cried  the  little  man,  hastily ; 
“  that’s  it  —  that’s  me,  Johnny.  You’re  all  right 
now,  an’t  you  ?  Say  you’re  all  right,  Johnny.” 

“All  right?”  pondered  Mr.  Willet,  as  if  that  were 
a  matter  entirely  between  himself  and  his  conscience. 
“All  right?  Ah!” 

“  They  haven’t  been  misusing  you  with  sticks,  or 
pokers,  or  any  other  blunt  instruments — have  they, 
Johnny?”  asked  Solomon,  with  a  very  anxious  glance 
at  Mr.  Willet’s  head.  “They  didn’t  beat  you,  did 
they  ?” 

John  knitted  his  brow ;  looked  downward,  as  if 
he  were  mentally  engaged  in  some  arithmetical  cal¬ 
culation  ;  then  upward,  as  if  the  total  would  not 
come  at  his  call ;  then  at  Solomon  Daisy,  from  his 
eyebrow  to  his  shoe-buckle ;  then  very  slowly  round 
the  bar.  And  then  a  great,  round,  leaden-looking, 
and  not  at  all  transparent  tear,  came  rolling  out  of 
each  eye,  and  he  said,  as  he  shook  his  head : 

“  If  they’d  only  had  the  goodness  to  murder  me, 
I’d  have  thanked  ’em  kindly.” 

“  No,  no,  no,  don’t  say  that,  Johnny,”  whimpered 
his  little  friend.  “  It’s  very,  very  bad,  but  not  quite 
so  bad  as  that.  No,  no !” 

“Look’ee  here,  sir!”  cried  John,  turning  his  rue¬ 
ful  eyes  on  Mr.  Haredale,  who  had  dropped  on  one 
knee,  and  was  hastily  beginning  to  untie  his  bonds. 
“Look’ee  here,  sir!  The  very  May-pole — the  old 
dumb  May-pole — stares  in  at  the  winder,  as  if  it 
said,  ‘John  Willet,  John  Willet,  let’s  go  and  pitch 
ourselves  in  the  nighest  pool  of  water  as  is  deep 
enough  to  hold  us ;  for  our  day  is  over  !’  ” 

“  Don’t,  Johnny,  don’t,”  cried  his  friend :  no  less 
affected  with  this  mournful  effort  of  Mr.  Willet’s 
imagination,  than  by  the  sepulchral  tone  in  which 
he  had  spoken  of  the  May -pole.  “  Please  don’t, 
Johnny !” 

“  Your  loss  is  great,  and  your  misfortune  a  heavy 
one,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  looking  restlessly  toward 
the  door;  “and  this  is  not  a  time  to  comfort  you. 
If  it  were,  I  am  in  no  condition  to  do  so.  Before 
I  leave  you,  tell  me  one  thing,  and  try  to  tell  me 
plainly,  I  implore  you.  Have  you  seen,  or  heard  of 
Emma  ?” 

“No!”  said  Mr.  Willet. 

“Nor  any  one  but  these  blood-hounds?” 

“  No !” 

“  They  rode  away,  I  trust  in  Heaven,  before  these 
dreadful  scenes  began,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  who,  be¬ 
tween  his  agitation,  his  eagerness  to  mount  his  horse 
again,  and  the  dexterity  with  which  the  cords  were 
tied,  had  scarcely  yet  undone  one  knot.  “A  knife, 
Daisy !” 

“You  didn’t,”  said  John,  looking  about,  as  though 


182 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


he  had  lost  his  pocket-handkerchief,  or  some  such 
slight  article — “either  of  you  gentlemen — see  a — a 
coffin  anywheres,  did  you  ?” 

u  Willet ! ”  cried  Mr.  Haredale.  Solomon  dropped 
the  knife,  and  instantly  becoming  limp  from  head  to 
foot,  exclaimed,  “  Good  gracious!” 

“ — Because,”  said  John,  not  at  all  regarding 


to  the  door,  mounted  his  horse,  took  him  up  behind 
again,  aud  flew  rather  than  galloped  toward  the 
pile  of  ruins,  which  that  day’s  sun  had  shone  upon, 
a  stately  house.  Mr.  Willet  stared  after  them,  list¬ 
ened,  looked  down  upon  himself  to  make  quite  sure 
that  he  was  still  unbound,  and,  without  auy  mani¬ 
festation  of  impatience,  disappointment,  or  surprise, 


ANOTHER  FORM  RUSHED  OUT  INTO  TUE  LIGHT,  FLUNG  ITSELF  UPON  THE  FOREMOST  ONE,  KNELT  DOWN  UPON  ITS  HREAST,  AND 

OLUTOUED  ITS  THROAT  WITH  BOTH  HANDS. 


them,  u  a  dead  man  called  a  little  time  ago,  on  his 
way  yonder.  I  conld  have  told  you  what  name 
was  on  the  plate,  if  he  had  brought  his  coffin  with 
him,  and  left  it  behind.  If  he  didn’t,  it  don’t  sig¬ 
nify.” 

His  landlord,  who  had  listened  to  these  words 
Avith  breathless  attention,  started  that  moment  to 
his  feet ;  and,  without  a  word,  drew  Solomon  Daisy 


gently  relapsed  into  the  condition  from  which  he 
had  so  imperfectly  recoAmred. 

Mr.  Haredale  tied  his  horse  to  the  trunk  of  a  tree, 
and  grasping  his  companion’s  arm,  stole  softly  along 
the  footpath,  and  into  what  had  been  the  garden  of 
his  house.  He  stopped  for  an  instant  to  look  upon 
its  smoking  walls,  and  at  the  stars  that  shone 
through  roof  and  floor  upon  the  heap  of  crumbling 


THE  END  OF  A  LONG  WATCH . 


183 


ashes.  Solomon  glanced  timidly  in  his  face,  but  his 
lips  were  tightly  pressed  together,  a  resolute  and 
stern  expression  sat  upon  his  brow,  and  not  a  tear, 
a  look,  or  gesture  indicating  grief,  escaped  him. 

He  drew  his  sword;  felt  for  a  moment  in  his 
breast,  as  though  he  carried  other  arms  about  him; 
then  grasping  Solomon  by  the  wrist  again,  went 
with  a  cautious  step  all  round  the  house.  He  look¬ 
ed  into  every  door -way  and  gap  in  the  wall;  re¬ 
traced  his  steps  at  every  rustling  of  the  air  among 
the  leaves;  and  searched  in  every  shadowed  nook 
with  outstretched  hands.  Thus  they  made  the  cir¬ 
cuit  of  the  building ;  but  they  returned  to  the  spot 
from  which  they  had  set  out,  without  encountering 
any  human  being,  or  finding  the  least  trace  of  any 
concealed  straggler. 

After  a  short  pause,  Mr.  Haredale  shouted  twice 
or  thrice.  Then  cried  aloud,  “  Is  there  any  one  in 
hiding  here,  who  knows  my  voice?  There  is  noth¬ 
ing  to  fear  now.  If  any  of  my  people  are  near,  I 
entreat  them  to  answer!”  He  called  them  all  by 
name ;  his  voice  was  echoed  in  many  mournful 
tones ;  then  all  was  silent  as  before. 

They  were  standing  near  the  foot  of  the  turret, 
where  the  alarm-bell  hung.  The  fire  had  raged 
there,  and  the  floors  had  been  sawn,  and  hewn,  and 
beaten  down,  besides.  It  was  open  to  the  night ; 
but  a  part  of  the  staircase  still  remained,  winding 
upward  from  a  great  mound  of  dust  and  cinders. 
Fragments  of  the  jagged  and  broken  steps  offered 
an  insecure  and  giddy  footing  here  and  there,  and 
then  were  lost  again,  behind  protruding  angles  of 
the  wall,  or  in  the  deep  shadows  cast  upon  it  by 
other  portions  of  the  ruin;  for  by  this  time  the 
moon  had  risen,  and  shone  brightly. 

As  they  stood  here,  listening  to  the  echoes  as  they 
died  away,  and  hoping  in  vain  to  hear  a  voice  they 
knew,  some  of  the  ashes  in  this  turret  slipped  and 
rolled  down.  Startled  by  the  least  noise  in  that 
melancholy  place,  Solomon  locked  up  in  his  compan¬ 
ion’s  face,  and  saw  that  he  had  turned  toward  the 
spot,  and  that  he  watched  and  listened  keenly. 

He  covered  the  little  man’s  mouth  with  his  hand, 
and  looked  again.  Instantly,  with  kindling  eyes, 
he  bade  him  on  his  life  keep  still,  and  neither  speak 
nor  move.  Then  holding  his  breath,  and  stooping 
down,  he  stole  into  the  turret,  with  his  drawn  sword 
in  his  hand,  and  disappeared. 

Terrified  to  be  left  there  by  himself,  under  such 
desolate  circumstances,  and  after  all  he  had  seen 
and  heard  that  night,  Solomon  would  have  follow¬ 
ed,  but  there  had  been  something  in  Mr.  Haredale’s 
manner  and  his  look,  the  recollection  of  which  held 
him  spell-bound.  He  stood  rooted  to  the  spot ;  and 
scarcely  venturing  to  breathe,  looked  up  with  min¬ 
gled  fear  and  wonder. 

Again  the  ashes  slipped  and  rolled  —  very,  very 
softly  —  again  —  and  then  again,  as  though  they 
crumbled  underneath  the  tread  of  a  stealthy  foot. 
And  now  a  figure  was  dimly  visible ;  climbing  very 
softly ;  and  often  stopping  to  look  down ;  now  it 
pursued  its  difficult  way;  and  now  it  was  hidden 
from  the  view  again. 

It  emerged  once  more,  into  the  shadowy  and  un¬ 
certain  light  —  higher  now,  but  not  much,  for  the 
way  was  steep  and  toilsome,  and  its  progress  very 


slow.  What  phantom  of  the  brain  did  he  pursue  ; 
and  why  did  he  look  down  so  constantly  ?  He  knew 
he  was  alone.  Surely  his  mind  was  not  affected  by 
that  night’s  loss  and  agony.  He  was  not  about  to 
throw  himself  headlong  from  the  summit  of  the  tot¬ 
tering  wall.  Solomon  turned  sick,  and  clasped  his 
hands.  His  limbs  trembled  beneath  him,  and  a  cold 
sweat  broke  out  upon  his  pallid  face. 

If  he  complied  with  Mr.  Haredale’s  last  injunc¬ 
tion  now,  it  was  because  he  had  not  the  power  to 
speak  or  move.  He  strained  his  gaze,  and  fixed  it 
on  a  patch  of  moonlight,  into  which,  if  he  continued 
to  ascend,  he  must  soon  emerge.  When  he  appeared 
there,  he  would  try  to  call  to  him. 

Again  the  ashes  slipped  and  crumbled ;  some 
stones  rolled  down,  and  fell  with  a  dull,  heavy 
sound  upon  the  ground  below.  He  kept  his  eyes 
upon  the  piece  of  moonlight.  The  figure  was  com¬ 
ing  on,  for  its  shadow  was  already  thrown  upon  the 
wall.  Now  it  appeared — and  now  looked  round  at 
him — and  now — 

The  horror-stricken  clerk  uttered  a  scream  that 
pierced  the  air,  and  cried,  “  The  ghost !  The  ghost !” 

Long  before  the  echo  of  his  cry  had  died  away, 
another  form  rushed  out  into  the  light,  flung  itself 
upon  the  foremost  one,  knelt  down  upon  its  breast, 
and  clutched  its  throat  with  both  hands. 

u  Villain  !”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  in  a  terrible  voice 
— for  it  was  he.  “  Dead  and  buried,  as  all  men  sup¬ 
posed  through  your  infernal  arts,  but  reserved  by 
Heaven  for  this — at  last — at  last — I  have  you.  You, 
whose  hands  are  red  with  my  brother’s  blood,  and 
that  of  his  faithful  servant,  shed  to  conceal  your 
own  atrocious  guilt.  You,  Rudge,  double  murderer 
and  monster,  I  arrest  yon  in  the  name  of  God,  who 
has  delivered  you  into  my  hands.  No.  Though  you 
had  the  strength  of  twenty  men,”  he  added,  as  the 
murderer  writhed  and  struggled,  “  you  could  not  es¬ 
cape  me  or  loosen  my  grasp  to-night !” 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

BARNABY,  armed  as  we  have  seen,  continued  to 
pace  up  and  down  before  the  stable  door  ;  glad 
to  be  alone  again,  and  heartily  rejoicing  in  the  unac¬ 
customed  silence  and  tranquillity.  After  the  whirl 
of  noise  and  riot  in  which  the  last  two  days  had 
been  passed,  the  pleasures  of  solitude  and  peace 
were  enhanced  a  thousand-fold.  He  felt  quite  hap¬ 
py;  and  as  he  leaned  upon  his  staff  and  mused,  a 
bright  smile  overspread  his  face,  and  none  but  cheer¬ 
ful  visions  floated  into  his  brain. 

Had  he  no  thoughts  of  her,  whose  sole  delight  he 
was,  and  whom  he  had  uuconsciously  plunged  in 
such  bitter  sorrow  and  such  deep  affliction  ?  Oh 
yes.  She  was  at  the  heart  of  all  his  cheerful  hopes 
and  proud  reflections.  It  was  she  whom  all  this 
honor  and  distinction  were  to  gladden  ;  the  joy  and 
profit  were  for  her.  What  delight  it  gave  her  to 
hear  of  the  bravery  of  her  poor  boy !  Ah !  He 
would  have  known  that,  without  Hugh’s  telling 
him.  And  what  a  precious  thing  it  was  to  know 
she  lived  so  happily,  and  heard  with  so  much  pride 
(he  pictured  to  himself  her  look  when  they  told  her) 


184 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


that  he  was  in  such  high  esteem:  hold  among  the 
boldest,  and  trusted  before  them  all.  And  when 
these  frays  were  over,  and  the  good  lord  had  con¬ 
quered  his  enemies,  and  they  were  all  at  peace 
again,  and  he  and  she  were  rich,  what  happiness 
they  would  have  in  talking  of  these  troubled  times 
when  he  was  a  great  soldier:  and  when  they  sat 
alone  together  in  the  tranquil  twilight,  and  she  had 
no  longer  reason  to  be  anxious  for  the  morrow,  what 
pleasure  would  he  have  in  the  reflection  that  this 
was  his  doing — his — poor  foolish  Barnaby’s ;  and  in 
patting  her  on  the  cheek,  and  saying  with  a  merry 
laugh,  “Am  I  silly  now,  mother — am  I  silly  now  ?” 

With  a  lighter  heart  and  step,  and  eyes  the  bright¬ 
er  for  the  happy  tear  that  dimmed  them  for  a  mo- 


and  burying  them  ;  constantly  busying  himself  upon 
the  sly ;  and  affecting,  whenever  Barnaby  came  past, 
to  look  up  in  the  clouds  and  have  nothing  whatever 
on  his  mind :  in  short,  conducting  himself,  in  many 
respects,  in  a  more  than  usually  thoughtful,  deep, 
and  mysterious  manner. 

As  the  day  crept  on,  Barnaby,  who  had  no  direc¬ 
tions  forbidding  him  to  eat  and  drink  upon  his  post, 
but  had  been,  on  the  contrary,  supplied  with  a  bot¬ 
tle  of  beer  and  a  basket  of  provisions,  determined  to 
break  his  fast,  which  he  had  not  done  since  morning. 
To  this  end,  he  sat  down  on  the  ground  before  the 
door,  and  putting  his  staff  across  his  knees  in  case 
of  alarm  or  surprise,  summoned  Grip  to  dinner. 

This  call,  the  bird  obeyed  with  great  alacrity; 


HE  BAT  DOWN  ON  THE  GROUND  BEFORE  THE  DOOR,  AND  PUTTING  IIIS  STAFF  AOROS8  U18  KNEES  IN  CASE  OF  AI.ARM  OR  SURPRISE, 

SUMMONED  GRIP  TO  DINNER. 


ment,  Barnaby  resumed  his  walk ;  and  singing  gayly 
to  himself,  kept  guard  upon  his  quiet  post. 

His  comrade  Grip,  the  partner  of  his  watch,  though 
fond  of  basking  in  the  sunshine,  preferred  to-day  to 
walk  about  the  stable ;  having  a  great  deal  to  do  in 
the  way  of  scattering  the  straw,  hiding  under  it  such 
small  articles  as  had  been  casually  left  about,  and 
haunting  Hugh’s  bed,  to  which  he  seemed  to  have 
taken  a  particular  attachment.  Sometimes  Barna¬ 
by  looked  in  and  called  him,  and  then  he  came  hop¬ 
ping  out ;  but  he  merely  did  this  as  a  concession  to 
his  master’s  weakness,  and  soon  returned  again  to 
his  own  grave  pursuits :  peering  into  the  straw  with 
his  bill,  and  rapidly  covering  up  the  place,  as  if, 
Midas-like,  he  were  whispering  secrets  to  the  earth 


crying,  as  he  sidled  up  to  his  master,  “I’m  a  devil, 
I’m  a  Polly,  I’m  a  kettle,  I’m  a  Protestant,  No  Pop¬ 
ery  !”  Having  learned  this  latter  sentiment  from  the 
gentry  among  whom  he  had  lived  of  late,  he  deliver¬ 
ed  it  with  uncommon  emphasis. 

“Well  said,  Grip  !”  cried  his  master,  as  he  fed  him 
with  the  daintiest  bits.  “  Well  said,  old  boy !” 

“Never  say  die,  bow  wow  wow,  keep  up  your 
spirits,  Grip  Grip  Grip,  Halloo!  We’ll  all  have  ten, 
I’m  a  Protestant  kettle,  No  Popery !”  cried  the  raven. 

“  Gordon  forever,  Grip !”  cried  Barnaby. 

The  raven,  placing  his  head  upon  the  ground, 
looked  at  his  master  sideways,  as  though  he  would 
have  said,  “  Say  that  again !”  Perfectly  understand¬ 
ing  his  desire,  Barnaby  repeated  the  phrase  a  great 


MAD ,  MY  LORD. 


185 


many  times.  The  bird  listened  with  profound  at¬ 
tention  ;  sometimes  repeating  the  popular  cry  in  a 
low  voice,  as  if  to  compare  the  two,  and  try  if  it 
would  at  all  help  him  to  this  new  accomplishment ; 
sometimes  flapping  his  wings,  or  barking ;  and  some¬ 
times  in  a  kind  of  desperation  drawing  a  multitude 
of  corks,  with  extraordinary  viciousuess. 

Barnaby  was  so  intent  upon  his  favorite,  that  he 
was  not  at  first  aware  of  the  approach  of  two  per¬ 
sons  on  horseback,  who  were  riding  at  a  foot-pace, 
and  coming  straight  toward  his  post.  When  he 
perceived  them,  however,  which  he  did  when  they 
were  within  some  fifty  yards  of  him,  he  jumped  has¬ 
tily  up,  and  ordering  Grip  within  doors,  stood  with 
both  hands  on  his  staff,  waiting  until  he  should 
know  whether  they  were  friends  or  foes. 

He  had  hardly  done  so,  when  he  observed  that 
those  who  advanced  were  a  gentleman  and  his  serv¬ 
ant  ;  almost  at  the  same  moment  he  recognized  Lord 
George  Gordon,  before  whom  he  stood  uncovered, 
with  his  eyes  turned  toward  the  ground. 

“  Good-day !”  said  Lord  George,  not  reining  in  his 
horse  until  he  was  close  beside  him.  “  Well  !” 

“All  quiet,  sir,  all  safe!”  cried  Barnaby.  “The 
rest  are  away — they  went  by  that  path — that  one. 
A  grand  party  !” 

“Ay!”  said  Lord  George,  looking  thoughtfully  at 
him.  “Andvou?” 

“Oh!  They  left  me  here  to  watch — to  mount 
guard — to  keep  every  thing  secure  till  they  come 
back.  I’ll  do  it,  sir,  for  your  sake.  You’re  a  good 
gentleman  j  a  kind  gentleman — ay,  you  are.  There 
are  many  against  you,  but  we’ll  be  a  match  for 
them,  never  fear!” 

“What’s  that?”  said  Lord  George — pointing  to 
the  raven  Avho  was  peeping  out  of  the  stable-door — 
but  still  looking  thoughtfully,  and  in  some  perplexi¬ 
ty,  it  seemed,  at  Barnaby. 

“  Why,  don’t  you  know  ?”  retorted  Barnaby,  with 
a  wondering  laugh.  “Not  know  what  lie  is!  A 
bird,  to  be  sure.  My  bird — my  friend — Grip.” 

“A  devil,  a  kettle,  a  Grip,  a  Polly,  a  Protestant,  no 
Popery !”  cried  the  raven. 

“  Though,  iudeed,”  added  Barnaby,  laying  his  hand 
upon  the  neck  of  Lord  George’s  horse,  and  speaking 
softly  :  “  you  had  good  reason  to  ask  me  what  he  is, 
for  sometimes  it  puzzles  me— and  I  am  used  to  him 
— to  think  he’s  only  a  bird.  He’s  my  brother,  Grip 
is — always  with  me — always  talking — always  merry 
— eh,  Grip  ?” 

The  raven  answered  by  an  affectionate  croak,  and 
hopping  on  his  master’s  arm,  which  he  held  down¬ 
ward  for  that  purpose,  submitted  with  an  air  of  per¬ 
fect  indifference  to  be  fondled,  and  turned  his  rest¬ 
less,  curious  eye,  now  upon  Lord  George,  and  now 
upon  his  man. 

Lord  George,  biting  his  nails  in  a  discomfited  man¬ 
ner,  regarded  Barnaby  for  some  time  in  silence ;  then 
beckoning  to  his  servant,  said : 

“  Come  hither,  John.” 

John  Grueby  touched  his  hat,  and  came. 

“  Have  you  ever  seen  this  young  man  before  ?”  his 
master  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

“Twice,  my  lord,”  said  John.  “I  see  him  in  the 
crowd  last  night  and  Saturday.” 

“Did — did  it  seem  to  you  that  his  manner  was 


at  all  wild  or  strange  ?”  Lord  George  demanded,  fal¬ 
tering. 

“Mad,”  said  John,  with  emphatic  brevity. 

“And  why  do  you  thiuk  him  mad,  sir?”  said  his 
master,  speaking  in  a  peevish  tone.  “Don’t  use 
that  word  too  freely.  Why  do  you  think  him  mad  ?” 

“My  lord,”  John  Grueby  answered,  “look  at  his 
dress,  look  at  his  eyes,  look  at  his  restless  way,  hear 
him  cry  1  No  Popery  !’  Mad,  my  lord.” 

“  So  because  one  man  dresses  unlike  another,”  re¬ 
turned  his  angry  master,  glancing  at  himself,  “  and 
happens  to  differ  from  other  men  in  his  carriage  and 
manner,  aud  to  advocate  a  great  cause  which  the 
corrupt  and  irreligious  desert,  he  is  to  be  accounted 
mad,  is  he  ?” 

“  Stark,  staring,  raving,  roaring  mad,  my  lord,” 
returned  the  unmoved  John. 

“  Do  you  say  this  to  my  face  ?”  cried  his  master, 
turning  sharply  upon  him. 

“  To  any  man,  my  lord,  who  asks  me,”  answered 
John. 

“  Mr.  Gashford,  I  find,  was  right,”  said  Lord  George ; 
“I  thought  him  prejudiced,  though  I  ought  to  have 
known  a  man  like  him  better  than  to  have  supposed 
it  possible !” 

’“  I  shall  never  have  Mr.  Gashford’s  good  word,  my 
lord,”  replied  John,  touching  his  hat  respectfully, 
“  and  I  don’t  covet  it.” 

“You  are  an  ill-conditioned,  most  ungrateful  fel¬ 
low,”  said  Lord  George :  “  a  spy,  for  any  thing  I 
know.  Mr.  Gashford  is  perfectly  correct,  as  I  might 
have  felt  convinced  he  was.  I  have  done  wrong  to 
retain  you  in  my  service.  It  is  a  tacit  insult  to  him 
as  my  choice  and  confidential  friend  to  do  so,  re¬ 
membering  the  cause  you  sided  with;  on  the  day  he 
was  maligned  at  Westminster.  You  will  leave  me 
to-night  —  nay,  as  soon  as  we  reach  home.  The 
sooner  the  better.” 

“  If  it  comes  to  that,  I  say  so  too,  my  lord.  Let 
Mr.  Gashford  have  his  will.  As  to  my  being  a  spy, 
my  lord,  you  know  me  better  than  to  believe  it,  I 
am  sure.  I  don’t  know  much  about  causes.  My 
cause  is  the  cause  of  one  man  against  two  hundred ; 
and  I  hope  it  always  will  be.” 

“You  have  said  quite  enough,”  returned  Lord 
George,  motioning  him  to  go  back.  “I  desire  to 
hear  no  more.” 

“If  you’ll  let  me  have  another  word,  my  lord,” 
returned  John  Grueby,  “  I’d  give  this  silly  fellow  a 
caution  not  to  stay  here  by  himself.  The  proclama¬ 
tion  is  in  a  good  many  hands  already,  and  it’s  well 
known  that  he  was  concerned  in  the  business  it  re¬ 
lates  to.  He  had  better  get  to  a  place  of  safety  if 
he  can,  poor  creature.” 

“  You  hear  what  this  man  says  ?”  cried  Lord 
George,  addressing  Barnaby,  who  had  looked  on  and 
wondered  while  this  dialogue  passed.  “  He  thinks 
you  may  be  afraid  to  remain  upon  your  post,  and 
are  kept  here  perhaps  against  your  will.  What  do 
you  say  ?” 

“I  think,  young  man,”  said  John,  in  explanation, 
“  that  the  soldiers  may  turn  out  and  take  you ;  and 
that  if  they  do,  you  will  certainly  be  hung  by  the 
neck  till  you’re  dead — dead — dead.  And  I  think 
you  had  better  go  from  here,  as  fast  as  you  can. 
That’s  what  I  think.” 


186 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“He’s  a  coward,  Grip,  a  coward!”  cried  Barnaby, 
putting  the  raven  on  the  ground,  and  shouldering 
bis  staff.  “  Let  them  come !  Gordon  forever !  Let 
them  come !” 

“Ay!”  said  Lord  George,  “let  them!  Let  us  see 
who  will  venture  to  attack  a  power  like  ours ;  the 
solemn  league  of  a  whole  people.  This  a  madman! 
You  have  said  well,  very  well.  I  am  proud  to  be 
the  leader  of  such  men  as  you.” 

Barnaby’s  heart  swelled  within  his  bosom  as  he 
heard  these  words.  He  took  Lord  George’s  hand 
and  carried  it  to  his  lips;  patted  his  horse’s  crest, 
as  if  the  affection  and  admiration  he  had  conceived 
for  the  man  extended  to  the  animal  he  rode ;  then 
unfurling  his  flag,  and  proudly  waving  it,  resumed 
his  pacing  up  and  down. 

Lord  George,  with  a  kindling  eye  and  glowing 
cheek,  took  off  his  hat,  and  flourishing  it  above  his 
head,  bade  him  exultingly  Farewell! — then  cantered 
off  at  a  brisk  pace ;  after  glancing  angrily  round  to 
see  that  his  servant  followed.  Honest  John  set 
spurs  to  his  horse  and  rode  after  his  master,  but  not 
before  he  had  again  warned  Barnaby  to  retreat,  with 
many  significant  gestures,  which  indeed  he  contin¬ 
ued  to  make,  and  Barnaby  to  resist  until  the  wind¬ 
ings  of  the  road  concealed  them  from  each  other’s 
view. 

Left  to  himself  again  with  a  still  higher  sense  of 
the  importance  of  his  post,  and  stimulated  to  en¬ 
thusiasm  by  the  special  notice  and  encouragement 
of  his  leader,  Barnaby  walked  to  and  fro  in  a  de¬ 
licious  trance  rather  than  as  a  waking  man.  The 
sunshine  which  prevailed  around  was  in  his  mind. 
He  had  but  one  desire  ungratified.  If  she  could 
only  see  him  now ! 

The  day  wore  on  ;  its  heat  was  gently  giving 
place  to  the  cool  of  evening;  a  light  wind  sprung 
up,  fanning  his  long  hair,  and  making  the  banner 
rustle  pleasantly  above  his  head.  There  was  a  free¬ 
dom  and  freshness  in  the  sound  and  in  the  time, 
which  chimed  exactly  with  his  mood.  He  was  hap¬ 
pier  than  ever. 

He  was  leaning  on  his  staff  looking  toward  the 
declining  sun,  and  reflecting  with  a  smile  that  he 
stood  sentinel  at  that  moment  over  buried  gold, 
when  two  or  three  figures  appeared  in  the  distance, 
making  toward  the  house  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  mo¬ 
tioning  with  their  hands  as  though  they  urged  its 
inmates  to  retreat  from  some  approaching  danger. 
As  they  drew  nearer,  they  became  more  earnest  in 
their  gestures ;  and  they  were  no  sooner  within  hear¬ 
ing,  than  the  foremost  among  them  cried  that  the 
soldiers  were  coming  up. 

At  these  words,  Barnaby  furled  his  flag,  and  tied 
it  round  the  pole.  His  heart  beat  high  while  he  did 
so,  but  he  had  no  more  fear  or  thought  of  retreating 
than  the  pole  itself.  The  friendly  stragglers  hur¬ 
ried  past  him,  after  giving  him  notice  of  his  danger, 
and  quickly  passed  into  the  house,  where  the  utmost 
confusion  immediately  prevailed.  As  those  within 
hastily  closed  the  windows  and  the  doors,  they  urged 
him  by  looks  and  signs  to  fly  without  loss  of  time, 
and  called  to  him  many  times  to  do  so ;  but  he  only 
shook  his  head  indignantly  in  answer,  and  stood  the 
firmer  on. his  post.  Finding  that  he  was  not  to  be 
persuaded,  they  took  care  of  themselves ;  and  leav¬ 


ing  the  place  with  only  one  old  woman  in  it,  speedi¬ 
ly  withdrew. 

As  yet  there  had  been  no  symptom  of  the  news 
having  any  better  foundation  than  in  the  fears  of 
those  who  brought  it,  but  The  Boot  had  not  been 
deserted  five  minutes,  when  there  appeared,  coming 
across  the  fields,  a  body  of  men  who,  it  was  easy  to 
see,  by  the  glitter  of  their  arms  and  ornaments  in 
the  sun,  and  by  their  orderly  and  regular  mode  of 
advancing — for  they  came  on  as  one  man — were  sol¬ 
diers.  In  a  very  little  time,  Barnaby  knew  that 
they  were  a  strong  detachment  of  the  Foot  Guards, 
having  along  with  them  two  gentlemen  in  private 
clothes,  and  a  small  party  of  Horse ;  the  latter 
brought  up  the  rear,  and  were  not  in  number  more 
than  six  or  eight. 

They  advanced  steadily ;  neither  quickening  their 
pace  as  they  came  nearer,  nor  raising  any  cry,  nor 
showing  the  least  emotion  or  anxiety.  Though  this 
was  a  matter  of  course  in  the  case  of  regular  troops, 
even  to  Barnaby,  there  was  something  particularly 
impressive  and  disconcerting  in  it  to  one  accustom¬ 
ed  to  the  noise  and  tumult  of  an  undisciplined  mob. 
For  all  that,  he  stood  his  ground  not  a  whit  the  less 
resolutely,  and  looked  on  undismayed. 

Presently,  they  marched  into  the  yard,  and  halted. 
The  commanding  officer  dispatched  a  messenger  to 
the  horsemen,  one  of  whom  came  riding  back.  Some 
words  passed  between  them,  and  they  glanced  at 
Barnaby ;  who  well  remembered  the  man  he  had  un¬ 
horsed  at  Westminster,  and  saw  him  now  before  his 
eyes.  The  man  being  speedily  dismissed,  saluted, 
and  rode  back  to  his  comrades,  who  were  drawn  up 
apart  at  a  short  distance. 

The  officer  then  gave  the  word  to  prime  and  load. 
The  heavy  ringing  of  the  musket -stocks  upon  the 
ground,  and  the  sharp  and  rapid  rattling  of  the  ram¬ 
rods  in  their  barrels,  were  a  kind  of  relief  to  Bar¬ 
naby,  deadly  though  he  knew  the  purport  of  such 
sounds  to  be.  When  this  was  done,  other  commands 
were  given,  and  the  soldiers  instantaneously  formed 
in  single  file  all  round  the  house  and  stables ;  com¬ 
pletely  encircling  them  in  every  part,  at  a  distance, 
perhaps,  of  some  half-dozen  yards;  at  least  that 
seemed  in  Barnaby’s  eyes  to  be  about  the  space  left 
between  himself  and  those  who  confronted  him.  The 
horsemen  remained  drawn  up  by  themselves  as  be¬ 
fore. 

The  two  gentlemen  in  private  clothes  who  had 
kept  aloof,  now  rode  forward,  one  on  either  side  the 
officer.  The  proclamation  having  been  produced 
and  read  by  one  of  them,  the  officer  called  on  Barna¬ 
by  to  surrender. 

He  made  no  answer,  but  stepping  within  the  door, 
before  which  he  had  kept  guard,  held  his  pole  cross¬ 
wise  to  protect  it.  In  the  midst  of  a  profound  si¬ 
lence,  he  was  again  called  upon  to  yield. 

Still  he  offered  no  reply.  Indeed  he  had  enough 
to  do,  to  run  his  eye  backward  and  forward  along 
the  half-dozen  men  who  immediately  fronted  him, 
and  settle  hurriedly  within  himself  at  which  of  them 
he  would  strike  first,  when  they  pressed  on  him.  He 
caught  the  eye  of  one  in  the  centre,  and  resolved  to 
hew  that  fellow  down,  though  he  died  for  it. 

Again  there  was  a  dead  silence,  and  again  the 
same  voice  called  upon  him  to  deliver  himself  up. 


BARNABY  TAKEN. 


187 


Next  moment  he  was  back  in  the  stable,  dealing 
blows  about  him  like  a  madman.  Two  of  the  men 
lay  stretched  at  his  feet ;  the  one  he  had  marked, 
dropped  first — he  had  a  thought  for  that,  even  in 
the  hot  blood  and  hurry  of  the  struggle.  Another 
blow  —  another!  Down,  mastered,  wounded  in  the 
breast  by  a  heavy  blow  from  the  butt-end  of  a  gun 
(he  saw  the  weapon  in  the  act  of  falling) — breathless 
— and  a  prisoner. 

An  exclamation  of  surprise  from  the  officer  recall¬ 
ed  him,  in  some  degree,  to  himself.  He  looked  round. 
Grip,  after  working  in  secret  all  the  afternoon,  and 
with  redoubled  vigor  while  every  body’s  attention 
was  distracted,  had  plucked  away  the  straw  from 
Hugh’s  bed,  and  turned  up  the  loose  ground  with 
his  iron  bilk  The  hole  had  been  recklessly  filled 
to  the  brim,  and  was  merely  sprinkled  with  earth. 
Golden  cups,  spoons,  candlesticks,  coined  guineas — 
all  the  riches  were  revealed. 

They  brought  spades  and  a  sack;  dug  up  every 
thing  that  was  hidden  there ;  and  carried  away  more 
than  two  men  could  lift.  They  handcuffed  him  and 
bound  his  arms,  searched  him,  and  took  away  all  he 
had.  Nobody  questioned  or  reproached  him,  or  seem¬ 
ed  to  have  much  curiosity  about  him.  The  two  men 
he  had  stunned,  were  carried  off  by  their  compan¬ 
ions  in  the  same  business-like  way  in  which  every 
thing  else  was  done.  Finally,  he  -was  left  under  a 
guard  of  four  soldiers  with  fixed  bayonets,  while  the 
officer  directed  in  person  the  search  of  the  house  and 
the  other  buildings  connected  with  it. 

This  was  soon  completed.  The  soldiers  formed 
again  in  the  yard ;  he  was  marched  out,  with  his 
guard  about  him ;  and  ordered  to  fall  in,  where  a 
space  was  left.  The  others  closed  up  all  round,  and 
so  they  moved  away,  with  the  prisoner  in  the  centre. 

When  they  came  into  the  streets,  he  felt  he  was  a 
sight ;  and  looking  up  as  they  passed  quickly  along, 
could  see  people  running  to  the  windows  a  little  too 
late,  and  throwing  up  the  sashes  to  look  after  him. 
Sometimes  he  met  a  staring  face  beyond  the  heads 
about  him,  or  under  the  arms  of  his  conductors,  or 
peering  down  upon  him  from  a  wagon-top  or  coach¬ 
box  ;  but  this  was  all  he  saw,  being  surrounded  by 
so  many  men.  The  very  noises  of  the  streets  seem¬ 
ed  muffled  and  subdued  ;  and  the  air  came  stale  and 
hot  upon  him,  like  the  sickly  breath  of  an  oven. 

Tramp,  tramp.  Tramp,  tramp.  Heads  erect,  shoul¬ 
ders  square,  every  man  stepping  in  exact  time — all 
so  orderly  and  regular — nobody  looking  at  him — no¬ 
body  seeming  conscious  of  his  presence — he  could 
hardly  believe  he  was  a  Prisoner.  But  at  the  word, 
though  only  thought,  not  spoken,  he  felt  the  hand¬ 
cuffs  galling  his  wrists,  the  cord  pressing  his  arms  to 
his  sides :  the  loaded  guns  leveled  at  his  head ;  and 
those  cold,  bright,  sharp,  shining  points  turned  to¬ 
ward  him :  the  mere  looking  down  at  which,  now 
that  he  was  bound  and  helpless,  made  the  warm  cur¬ 
rent  of  his  life  run  cold. 

- ■» 

CHAPTER  LVIII. 

HEY  were  not  long  in  reaching  the  barracks,  for 
the  officer  who  commanded  the  party  was  desir¬ 
ous  to  avoid  the  rousing  the  people  by  the  display 


of  military  force  in  the  streets,  and  was  humanely 
anxious  to  give  as  little  opportunity  as  possible  for 
any  attempt  at  rescue;  knowing  it  must  lead  to 
bloodshed  and  loss  of  life,  and  that  if  the  civil  au¬ 
thorities  by  whom  he  was  accompanied,  empowered 
him  to  order  his  men  to  fire,  many  innocent  persons 
would  probably  fall,  whom  curiosity  or  idleness  had 
attracted  to  the  spot.  He  therefore  led  the  party 
briskly  on,  avoiding  with  a  merciful  prudence  the 
more  public  and  crowded  thoroughfares,  and  pursu¬ 
ing  those  which  he  deemed  least  likely  to  be  infested 
by  disorderly  persons.  This  wise  proceeding  not 
only  enabled  them  to  gain  their  quarters  without  any 
interruption,  but  completely  baffled  a  body  of  rioters 
who  had  assembled  in  one  of  the  main  streets,  through 
which  it  was  considered  certain  they  would  pass, 
and  who  remained  gathered  together  for  the  purpose 
of  releasing  the  prisoner  from  their  hands  long  after 
they  had  deposited  him  in  a  place  of  security,  closed 
the  barrack -gates,  and  set  a  double  guard  at  every 
entrance  for  its  better  protection. 

Arrived  at  this  place,  poor  Barnaby  was  marched 
into  a  stone -floored  room,  where  there  was  a  very 
powerful  smell  of  tobacco,  a  strong  thorough  draught 
of  air,  and  a  great  wooden  bedstead,  large  enough 
for  a  score  of  men.  Several  soldiers  in  undress  were 
lounging  about,  or  eating  from  tin  cans ;  military  ac¬ 
coutrements  dangled  on  rows  of  pegs  along  the  white¬ 
washed  wall;  and  some  half-dozen  men  lay  fast 
asleep  upon  their  backs,  snoring  in  concert.  After 
remaining  here  just  long  enough  to  note  these  things, 
he  was  marched  out  again,  and  conveyed  across  the 
parade-ground  to  another  portion  of  the  building. 

Perhaps  a  man  never  sees  so  much  at  a  glance  as 
when  he  is  in  a  situation  of  extremity.  The  chances 
are  a  hundred  to  one,  that  if  Barnaby  had  lounged 
in  at  the  gate  to  look  about  him,  he  would  have 
lounged  out  again  with  a  very  imperfect  idea  of  the 
place,  and  would  have  remembered  very  little  about 
it.  But  as  he  was  taken  handcuffed  across  the  grav¬ 
eled  area,  nothing  escaped  his  notice.  The  dry,  arid 
look  of  the  dusty  square,  and  of  the  bare  brick  build¬ 
ing;  the  clothes  hanging  at  some  of  the  windows; 
and  the  men  in  their  shirt-sleeves  and  braces,  lolling 
with  half  their  bodies  out  of  the  others ;  the  green 
sun-blinds  at  the  officers’  quarters,  and  the  little 
scanty  trees  in  front ;  the  drummer-boys  practicing 
in  a  distant  court-yard ;  the  men  at  drill  on  the  pa¬ 
rade  ;  the  two  soldiers  carrying  a  basket  between 
them,  who  winked  to  each  other  as  he  went  by,  and 
slyly  pointed  to  their  throats ;  the  spruce  sergeant 
who  hurried  past  with  a  cane  in  his  hand,  and  under 
his  arm  a  clasped  book  with  a  vellum  cover ;  the  fel¬ 
lows  in  the  ground-floor  rooms,  furbishing  and  brush¬ 
ing  up  their  different  articles  of  dress,  who  stopped 
to  look  at  him,  and  whose  voices  as  they  spoke  to¬ 
gether  echoed  loudly  through  the  empty  galleries 
and  passages;  every  thing,  down  to  the  stand  of 
muskets  before  the  guard-house,  and  the  drum  with 
a  pipe-clayed  belt  attached,  in  one  corner,  impressed 
itself  upon  his  observation,  as  though  he  had  noticed 
them  in  the  same  place  a  hundred  times,  or  had  been 
a  whole  day  among  them,  in  place  of  one  brief,  hur¬ 
ried  minute. 

He  was  taken  into  a  small  paved  back  yard,  and 
there  they  opened  a  great  door,  plated  with  iron, 


188 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


and  pierced  some  five  feet  above  the  ground  with  a 
few  boles  to  let  in  air  and  light.  Into  this  dungeon 
he  was  walked  straightway ;  and  having  locked  him 
up  there,  and  placed  a  sentry  over  him,  they  left  him 
to  his  meditations. 

The  cell,  or  black  hole,  for  it  had  those  words 
painted  on  the  door,  was  very  dark,  and  having 
recently  accommodated  a  drunken  deserter,  by  no 
means  clean.  Barnaby  felt  his  way  to  some  straw 
at  the  farther  end,  and  looking  toward  the  door, 
tried  to  accustom  himself  to  the  gloom,  which,  com¬ 
ing  from  the  bright  sunshine  out-of-doors,  was  not 
an  easy  task. 

There  was  a  kind  of  portico  or  colonnade  outside, 
and  this  obstructed  even  the  little  light  that  at  the 
best  could  have  found  its  way  through  the  small 
apertures  in  the  door.  The  footsteps  of  the  sentinel 
echoed  monotonously  as  he  paced  its  stone  pavement 
to  and  fro  (reminding  Barnaby  of  the  watch  he  had 
so  lately  kept  himself) ;  and  as  he  passed  and  re¬ 
passed  the  door,  he  made  the  cell  for  an  instant  so 
black  by  the  interposition  of  his  body,  that  his  go¬ 
ing  away  again  seemed  like  the  appearance  of  a  new 
ray  of  light,  and  was  quite  a  circumstance  to  look 
for. 

When  the  prisoner  had  sat  some  time  upon  the 
ground,  gazing  at  the  chinks,  and  listening  to  the 
advancing  and  receding  footsteps  of  his  guard,  the 
man  stood  still  upon  his  post.  Barnaby,  quite  una¬ 
ble  to  think,  or  to  speculate  on  what  would  be  done 
with  him,  had  been  lulled  into  a  kind  of  doze  by 
his  regular  pace ;  but  his  stopping  roused  him  ;  and 
then  he  became  aware  that  two  men  were  in  conver¬ 
sation  under  the  colonnade,  and  very  near  the  door 
of  his  cell. 

How  long  they  had  been  talking  there,  he  could 
not  tell,  for  he  had  fallen  into  an  unconsciousness  of 
his  real  position,  and  when  the  footsteps  ceased,  was 
answering  aloud  some  question  which  seemed  to 
have  been  put  to  him  by  Hugh  in  the  stable,  though 
of  the  fancied  purport,  either  of  question  or  reply, 
notwithstanding  that  he  awoke  with  the  latter  on 
his  lips,  he  had  no  recollection  whatever.  The  first 
words  that  reached  his  ears,  were  these : 

“  Why  is  he  brought  here  then,  if  he  has  to  be 
taken  away  again  so  soon  ?” 

“  Why,  where  would  you  have  him  go  ?  Damme, 
lie’s  not  as  safe  anywhere  as  among  the  king’s  troops, 
is  he  ?  What  would  you  do'with  him  ?  Would  you 
hand  him  over  to  a  pack  of  cowardly  civilians,  that 
shake  in  their  shoes  till  they  wear  the  soles  out,  with 
trembling  at  the  threats  of  the  ragamuffins  he  be¬ 
longs  to  ?” 

“  That’s  true  enough.” 

“  True  enough !  I’ll  tell  you  what.  I  wish,  Tom 
Green,  that  I  was  a  commissioned  instead  of  a  non¬ 
commissioned  officer,  and  that  I  had  the  command 
of  two  companies — only  two  companies — of  my  own 
regiment.  Call  me  out  to  stop  these  riots — give  me 
the  needful  authority,  and  half  a  dozen  rounds  of 
ball  cartridge — ” 

“  Ay !”  said  the  other  voice.  “  That’s  all  very  well, 
but  they  won’t  give  the  needful  authority.  If  the 
magistrate  won’t  give  the  word,  what’ s  the  officer  to 

do  ?” 

Not  very  well  knowing,  as  it  seemed,  how  to 


overcome  this  difficulty,  the  other  man  contented 
himself  with  damning  the  magistrates. 

“  With  all  my  heart,”  said  his  friend. 

“  Where’s  the  use  of  a  magistrate  ?”  returned  the 
other  voice.  “  What’s  a  magistrate  in  this  case,  but 
an  impertinent,  unnecessary,  unconstitutional  sort 
of  interference?  Here’s  a  proclamation.  Here’s  a 
man  referred  to  in  that  proclamation.  Here’s  proof 
against  him,  and  a  witness  on  the  spot.  Damme ! 
Take  him  out  and  shoot  him,  sir.  Who  wants  a 
magistrate  ?” 

“When  does  he  go  before  Sir  John  Fielding?” 
asked  the  man  who  had  spoken  first. 

“  To-night  at  eight  o’clock,”  returned  the  other. 
“Mark  what  follows.  The  magistrate  commits  him 
to  Newgate.  Our  people  take  him  to  Newgate.  The 
rioters  pelt  our  people.  Our  people  retire  before  the 
rioters.  Stones  are  thrown,  insults  are  offered,  not 
a  shot’s  fired.  Why  ?  Because  of  the  magistrates. 
D — n  the  magistrates !” 

When  he  had  in  some  degree  relieved  his  mind 
by  cursing  the  magistrates  in  various  other  forms  of 
speech,  the  man  was  silent,  save  for  a  low  growling, 
still  having  reference  to  those  authorities,  which 
from  time  to  time  escaped  him. 

Barnaby,  who  had  wit  enough  to  know  that  this 
conversation  concerned,  and  very  nearly  concerned, 
himself,  remained  perfectly  quiet  until  they  ceased 
to  speak,  when  he  groped  his  way  to  the  door,  and 
peeping  through  the  air-holes,  tried  to  make  out 
what  kind  of  men  they  were  to  whom  he  had  been 
listening. 

The  one  who  condemned  the  civil  power  in  such 
strong  terms,  was  a  sergeant  —  engaged  just  then, 
as  the  streaming  ribbons  in  his  cap  announced,  on 
the  recruiting  service.  He  stood  leaning  sideways 
against  a  pillar  nearly  opposite  the  door,  and  as  he 
growled  to  himself,  drew  figures  on  the  pavement 
with  his  caue.  The  other  man  had  his  back  toward 
the  dungeon,  and  Barnaby  could  only  see  his  form. 
To  judge  from  that,  he  was  a  gallant,  manly,  hand¬ 
some  fellow,  but  he  had  lost  his  left  arm.  It  had 
been  taken  off  between  the  elbow  and  the  shoulder, 
and  his  empty  coat-sleeve  hung  across  his  breast. 

It  was  probably  this  circumstance  which  gave 
him  an  interest  beyond  any  that  his  companion 
could  boast  of,  and  attracted  Barnaby’s  attention. 
There  was  something  soldierly  in  his  bearing,  and 
he  wore  a  jaunty  cap  and  jacket.  Perhaps  he  had 
been  in  the  service  at  one  time  or  other.  If  he  had, 
it  could  not  have  been  very  long  ago,  for  he  was  but 
a  young  fellow  now. 

“  Well, well,” he  said,  thoughtfully;  “let  the  fault 
be  where  it  may,  it  makes  a  man  sorrowful  to  come 
back  to  old  Englaud,  and  see  her  in  this  condition.” 

“  I  suppose  the  pigs  will  join  ’em  next,”  said  the 
sergeant,  with  an  imprecation  on  the  rioters,  “now 
that  the  birds  have  set  ’em  the  example.” 

“  The  birds !”  repeated  Tom  Green. 

“  Ah  —  birds,”  said  the  sergeant,  testily ;  “  that’s 
English,  an’t  it  ?” 

“  I  don’t  know  what  you  mean.” 

“Go  to  the  guard-house  and  see.  You’ll  find  a 
bird  there,  that’s  got  their  cry  as  pat  as  any  of ’em, 
and  bawls  1  No  Popery,’  like  a  man — or  like  a  devil, 
as  he  says  he  is.  I  shouldn’t  wonder.  The  devil’s 


BARNABY  MARCHED  OFF. 


189 


loose  in  London  somewhere.  Damme  if  I  wouldn’t 
twist  his  neck  round,  on  the  chance,  if  I  had  my 
way.” 

The  young  man  had  taken  two  or  three  steps 
away,  as  if  to  go  and  see  this  creature,  when  he 
was  arrested  by  the  voice  of  Barnaby. 

“  It’s  mine,”  he  called  out,  half  laughing  and  half 
wreeping — “my  pet,  my  friend  Grip.  Ha,  ha,  ha! 
Don’t  hurt  him,  he  has  done  no  harm.  I  taught 
him ;  it’s  my  fault.  Let  me  have  him,  if  you  please. 
He’s  the  only  friend  I  have  left  now.  He’ll  not 
dance,  or  talk,  or  whistle  for  you,  I  know ;  but  he 
will  for  me,  because  he  knows  me  and  loves  me — 
though  you  wouldn’t  think  it — very  well.  You 
wouldn’t  hurt  a  bird,  I’m  sure.  You’re  a  brave  sol¬ 
dier,  sir,  and  wouldn’t  harm  a  woman  or  a  child — 
no,  no,  nor  a  poor  bird,  I’m  certain.” 

This  latter  adjuration  was  addressed  to  the  ser¬ 
geant,  whom  Barnaby  judged  from  his  red  coat  to 
be  high  in  office,  and  able  to  seal  Grip’s  destiny  by 
a  word.  But  that  gentleman,  in  reply,  surlily  damn¬ 
ed  him  for  a  thief  and  rebel  as  he  was,  and  with 
many  disinterested  imprecations  on  his  own  eyes, 
liver,  blood,  and  body,  assured  him  that  if  it  rested 
with  him  to  decide,  he  wrould  put  a  final  stopper  on 
the  bird,  and  his  master  too. 

“  You  talk  boldly  to  a  caged  man,”  said  Barnaby, 
in  anger.  “  If  I  was  on  the  other  side  of  the  door 
and  there  were  none  to  part  us,  you’d  change  your 
note — ay,  you  may  toss  your  head — you  would! 
Kill  the  bird — do.  Kill  any  thing  you  can,  and  so 
revenge  yourself  on  those  who  with  their  bare  hands 
untied  could  do  as  much  to  you !” 

Having  vented  his  defiance,  he  flung  himself  into 
the  furthest  corner  of  his  prison,  and  muttering, 
“  Good-bye,  Grip — good-bye,  dear  old  Grip!”  shed 
tears  for  the  first  time  since  he  had  been  taken  cap¬ 
tive  ;  and  hid  his  face  in  the  straw. 

He  had  had  some  fancy  at  first,  that  the  one-arm¬ 
ed  man  would  help  him,  or  would  give  him  a  kind 
word  in  answer.  He  hardly  knew  wrhy,  but  he 
hoped  and  thought  so.  The  young  fellow  had  stop¬ 
ped  when  he  called  out,  and  checking  himself  in  the 
very  act  of  turning  round,  stood  listening  to  every 
word  he  said.  Perhaps  he  built  his  feeble  trust  on 
this;  perhaps  on  his  being  young,  and  having  a 
frank  and  honest  manner.  However  that  might  be, 
he  built  on  sand.  The  other  went  away  directly  he 
had  finished  speaking,  and  neither  answered  him,  nor 
returned.  No  matter.  They  were  all  against  him 
here:  he  might  have  known  as  much.  Good-bye, 
old  Grip,  good-bye ! 

After  some  time,  they  came  and  unlocked  the 
door,  and  called  to  him  to  come  out.  He  rose  di¬ 
rectly,  and  complied,  for  he  would  not  have  them 
think  he  was  subdued  or  frightened.  He  walked 
out  like  a  man,  and  looked  from  face  to  face. 

None  of  them  returned  his  gaze  or  seemed  to  no¬ 
tice  it.  They  marched  him  back  to  the  parade  by 
the  way  they  had  brought  him,  and  there  they  halt¬ 
ed,  among  a  body  of  soldiers,  at  least  twice  as  nu¬ 
merous  as  that  which  had  taken  him  prisoner  in  the 
afternoon.  The  officer  he  had  seen  before,  bade  him 
in  a  few  brief  words  take  notice  that  if  he  attempt¬ 
ed  to  escape,  no  matter  how  favorable  a  chance  he 
might  suppose  he  had,  certain  of  the  men  had  orders 


to  fire  upon  him,  that  moment.  They  then  closed 
round  him  as  before,  and  marched  him  off  again. 

In  the  same  unbroken  order  they  arrived  at  Bow 
Street,  followed  and  beset  on  all  sides  by  a  crowd 
which  was  continually  increasing.  Here  he  was 
placed  before  a  blind  gentleman,  and  asked  if  he 
wished  to  say  any  thing.  Not  he.  What  had  he 
got  to  tell  them  ?  After  a  very  little  talking,  which 
he  was  careless  of  and  quite  indifferent  to,  they  told 
him  he  was  to  go  to  Newgate,  and  took  him  away. 

He  went  out  into  the  street,  so  surrounded  and 
hemmed  in  on  every  side  by  soldiers,  that  he  could 
see  nothing ;  but  he  knew  there  was  a  great  crow’d 
of  people,  by  the  murmur ;  and  that  they  were  not 
friendly  to  the  soldiers,  was  soon  rendered  evident 
by  their  yells  and  hisses.  How  often  and  how  ea¬ 
gerly  he  listened  for  the  voice  of  Hugh !  No.  There 
was  not  a  voice  he  knew  among  them  all.  Was 
Hugh  a  prisoner  too  ?  Was  there  no  hope  ? 

As  they  came  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  prison,  the 
hootings  of  the  people  grew  more  violent ;  stones 
were  thrown ;  and  every  now  and  then,  a  rush  was 
madq  against  the  soldiers,  which  they  staggered  un¬ 
der.  One  of  them,  close  before  him,  smarting  under 
a  blow  upon  the  temple,  leveled  his  musket,  but  the 
officer  struck  it  upward  with  his  sword,  and  ordered 
him  on  peril  of  his  life  to  desist.  This  was  the  last 
thing  he  saw  with  any  distinctness,  for  directly  af¬ 
terward  he  was  tossed  about,  and  beaten  to  and  fro, 
as  though  in  a  tempestuous  sea.  But  go  where  hb 
would,  there  were  the  same  guards  about  him.  Twice 
or  thrice  he  was  thrown  down,  and  so  were  they ;  but 
even  then,  he  could  not  elude  their  vigilance  for  a 
moment.  They  were  up  again,  and  had  closed  about 
him,  before  he,  with  his  wrists  so  tightly  bound, 
could  scramble  to  his  feet.  Fenced  in  thus,  he  felt 
himself  hoisted  to  the  top  of  a  low  flight  of  steps, 
and  then  for  a  moment  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
fighting  in  the  crowd,  and  of  a  few  red-coats  sprin¬ 
kled  together,  here  and  there,  struggling  to  rejoin 
their  fellows.  Next  moment,  every  thing  was  dark 
and  gloomy,  and  he  was  standing  in  the  prison  lob¬ 
by,  the  centre  of  a  group  of  men. 

A  smith  was  speedily  in  attendance,  who  riveted 
upon  him  a  set  of  heavy  irons.  Stumbling  on  as 
well  as  he  could,  beneath  the  unusual  burden  of 
these  fetters,  he  was  conducted  to  a  strong  stone 
cell,  where,  fastening  the  door  with  locks,  and  bolts, 
and  chains,  they  left  him,  wTell  secured ;  having  first, 
unseen  by  him,  thrust  in  Grip,  who,  with  his  head 
drooping  and  his  deep  black  plumes  rough  and  rum¬ 
pled,  appeared  to  comprehend  and  to  partake  his 
master’s  fallen  fortunes. 

i 


CHAPTER  LIX. 

IT  is  necessary  at  this  juncture  to  return  to  Hugh, 
who,  having,  as  we  have  seen,  called  to  the  rioters 
to  disperse  from  about  the  Warren,  and  meet  again 
as  usual,  glided  back  into  the  darkness  from  which 
he  had  emerged,  and  re-appeared  no  more  that  night. 

He  paused  in  the  copse  which  sheltered  him  from 
the  observation  of  his  mad  companions,  and  waited 
to  ascertain  whether  they  drew  off  at  his  bidding,  or 


390 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


still  lingered  and  called  to  liim  to  join  them.  Some 
few,  he  saw,  were  indisposed  to  go  away  without 
him,  and  made  toward  the  spot  where  he  stood  con¬ 
cealed  as  though  they  were  about  to  follow  in  his 
footsteps,  and  urge  him  to  come  back ;  but  these 
men,  being  in  their  turn  called  to  by  their  friends, 
and  in  truth  not  greatly  caring  to  venture  into  the 
dark  parts  of  the  grounds,  where  they  might  be  eas¬ 
ily  surprised  and  taken,  if  any  of  the  neighbors  or 
retainers  of  the  family  were  watching  them  from 
among  the  trees,  soon  abandoned  the  idea,  and  has¬ 
tily  assembling  such  men  as  they  found  of  their 
mind  at  the  moment,  straggled  off. 

When  he  was  satisfied  that  the  great  mass  of  the 
insurgents  were  imitating  this  example,  and  that  the 
ground  was  rapidly  clearing,  he  plunged  into  the 
thickest  portion  of  the  little  wood;  and,  crashing 
the  branches  as  he  went,  made  straight  toward  a 
distant  light:  guided  by  that,  and  by  the  sullen 
glow  of  the  fire  behind  him. 

As  he  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  the  twinkling 
beacon  toward  which  he  bent  his  course,  the  red 
glare  of  a  few  torches  began  to  reveal  itself,  and  the 
voices  of  men  speaking  together  in  a  subdued*  tone 
broke  the  silence  which,  save  for  a  distant  shouting 
now  and  then,  already  prevailed.  At  length  he  clear¬ 
ed  the  wood,  and,  springing  across  a  ditch,  stood  in 
a  dark  lane,  where  a  small  body  of  ill-looking  vaga¬ 
bonds,  whom  he  had  left  there  some  twenty  minutes 
before,  waited  his  coming  with  impatience. 

They  were  gathered  round  an  old  post-chaise  or 
chariot,  driven  by  one  of  themselves,  who  sat  pos¬ 
tilion-wise  upon  the  near  horse.  The  blinds  were 
drawn  up,  and  Mr.  Tappertit  and  Dennis  kept  guard 
at  the  two  windows.  The  former  assumed  the  com¬ 
mand  of  the  party,  for  he  challenged  Hugh  as  he 
advanced  toward  them ;  and  when  he  did  so,  those 
who  were  resting  on  the  ground  about  the  carriage 
rose  to  their  feet  and  clustered  round  him. 

“Well!”  said  Simon,  in  a  low  voice;  “is  all 
right  ?” 

“  Right  enough,”  replied  Hugh,  in  the  same  tone. 
“  They’re  dispersing  now — had  begun  before  I  came 
away.” 

“And  is  the  coast  clear?” 

“  Clear  enough  before  our  men,  I  take  it,”  said 
Hugh.  “  There  are  not  many  who,  knowing  of  their 
work  over  yonder,  will  want  to  meddle  with  ’em  to¬ 
night.  Who’s  got  some  drink  here  ?” 

Every  body  had  some  plunder  from  the  cellar; 
half  a  dozen  flasks  and  bottles  were  offered  directly. 
He  selected  the  largest,  and  putting  it  to  his  mouth, 
sent  the  wine  gurgling  down  his  throat.  Having 
emptied  it,  he  threw  it  down,  and  stretched  out  his 
hand  for  another,  which  he  emptied  likewise,  at  a 
draught.  Another  was  given  him,  aud  this  he  half 
emptied  too.  Reserving  what  remained  to  finish 
with,  he  asked : 

“Have  you  got  any  thing  to  eat,  any  of  you? 
I’m  as  ravenous  as  a  hungry  wolf.  Which  of  you 
was  in  the  larder — come  ?” 

“  I  was,  brother,”  said  Dennis,  pulling  off  his  hat, 
and  fumbling  in  the  crown.  “There’s  a  matter  of 
cold  venison  pasty  somewhere  or  another  here,  if 
that’ll  do.” 

“  Do !”  cried  Hugh,  seating  himself  on  the  path¬ 


way.  “Bring  it  out!  Quick!  Show  a  light  here, 
and  gather  round !  Let  me  sup  in  state,  my  lads ! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

Entering  into  his  boisterous  humor,  for  they  all 
had  drunk  deeply,  and  were  as  wild  as  he,  they 
crowded  about  him,  while  two  of  their  number  who 
had  torches,  held  them  up,  one  on  either  side  of  him, 
that  his  banquet  might  not  be  dispatched  in  the 
dark.  Mr.  Dennis,  having  by  this  time  succeeded 
in  extricating  from  his  hat  a  great  mass  of  pasty, 
which  had  been  wedged  in  so  tightly  that  it  was 
not  easily  got  out,  put  it  before  him ;  and  Hugh, 
having  borrowed  a  notched  and  jagged  knife  from 
one  of  the  company,  fell  to  work  upon  it  vigorously. 

“  I  should  recommend  you  to  swallow  a  little  fire 
every  day,  about  an  hour  afore  dinner,  brother,,” 
said  Dennis,  after  a  pause.  “  It  seems  to  agree  with 
you,  and  to  stimulate  your  appetite.” 

Hugh  looked  at  him,  and  at  the  blackened  faces 
by  which  he  was  surrounded,  and,  stopping  for  a 
moment  to  flourish  his  knife  above  his  head,  an¬ 
swered  with  a  roar  of  laughter. 

“  Keep  order,  there,  will  you  ?”  said  Simon  Tap¬ 
pertit. 

“'Why,  isn’t  a  man  allowed  to  regale  himself,  no¬ 
ble  captain,”  retorted  his  lieutenant,  parting  the  men 
who  stood  between  them,  with  his  knife,  that  he 
might  see  him,  “to  regale  himself  a  little  bit  after 
such  work  as  mine  ?  What  a  hard  captain !  What 
a  strict  captain !  What  a  tyrannical  captain !  Ha, 
ha,  ha !” 

“  I  wish  one  of  you  fellers  would  hold  a  bottle  to 
his  mouth  to  keep  him  quiet,”  said  Simon,  “unless 
you  want  the  military  to  be  down  upon  us.” 

“And  what  if  they  are  down  upon  us!”  retorted 
Hugh.  “  Who  cares  ?  Who’s  afraid  ?  Let  ’em 
come,  I  say,  let  ’em  come.  The  more,  the  merrier. 
Give  me  bold  Barnaby  at  my  side,  and  we  two  will 
settle  the  military,  without  troubling  any  of  you. 
Barnaby’s  the  man  for  the  military.  Barnaby’s 
health.” 

But  as  the  majority  of  those  present  were  by  no 
means  anxious  for  a  second  engagement  that  night, 
being  already  weary  and  exhausted,  they  sided  with 
Mr.  Tappertit,  and  pressed  him  to  make  haste  with 
his  supper,  for  they  had  already  delayed  too  long. 
Knowing,  even  in  the  height  of  his  frenzy,  that  they 
incurred  great  danger  by  lingering  so  near  the  scene 
of  the  late  outrages,  Hugh  made  an  end  of  his  meal 
without  more  remonstrance,  and  rising,  stepped  up 
to  Mr.  Tappertit,  and  smote  him  on  the  back. 

“Now  then,”  he  cried,  “I’m  ready.  There  are 
brave  birds  inside  this  cage,  eh  ?  Delicate  birds, 
tender,  loving,  little  doves.  I  caged  ’em  —  I  caged 
’em — one  more  peep !” 

He  thrust  the  little  man  aside  as  he  spoke,  and 
mounting  on  the  steps,  which  were  half  let  down, 
pulled  down  the  blind  by  force,  and  stared  into  the 
chaise  like  an  ogre  into  his  larder. 

“  Ha,  ha,  ha!  and  did  you  scratch,  and  pinch,  and 
struggle,  pretty  mistress?”  he  cried,  as  he  grasped  a 
little  hand  that  sought  in  vain  to  free  itself  from  his 
grip:  “you,  so  bright-eyed,  aud  cherry-lipped,  and 
daintily  made  ?  But  I  love  you  better  for  it,  mis¬ 
tress.  Ay,  I  do.  You  should  stab  me  and  welcome, 
so  that  it  pleased  you,  and  you  had  to  cure  me  after- 


THE  BIRDS  MUCH  FLUTTERED. 


191 


ward.  I  love  to  see  you  proud  and  scornful.  It 
makes  you  handsomer  than  ever ;  and  who  so  hand¬ 
some  as  you  at  auy  time,  my  pretty  one !” 

“  Come  !”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  who  had  waited 
during  this  speech  with  considerable  impatience. 
“  There’s  enough  of  that.  Come  down.” 

•  The  little  hand  seconded  this  admonition  by  thrust¬ 
ing  Hugh’s  great  head  away  with  all  its  force,  and 
drawing  up  the  blind,  amidst  his  noisy  laughter,  and 
vows  that  he  must  have  another  look,  for  the  last 
glimpse  of  that  sweet  face  had  provoked  him  past 
all  bearing.  However,  as  the  suppressed  impatience 
of  the  party  now  broke  out  into  open  murmurs,  he 
abandoned  this  design,  and  taking  his  seat  upon  the 
bar,  contented  himself  with  tapping  at  the  front 
windows  of  the  carriage,  and  trying  to  steal  a 
glance  inside ;  Mr.  Tappertit,  mounting  the  steps 
and  hanging  on  by  the  door,  issued  his  directions  to 
the  driver  with  a  commanding  voice  and  attitude ; 
the  rest  got  up  behind,  or  ran  by  the  side  of  the  car¬ 
riage,  as  they  could ;  some,  in  imitation  of  Hugh,  en¬ 
deavored  to  see  the  face  he  had  praised  so  highly, 
and  were  reminded  of  their  impertinence  by  hints 
from  the  cudgel  of  Mr.  Tappertit.  Thus  they  pur¬ 
sued  their  journey  by  circuitous  and  winding  roads; 
preserving,  except  when  they  halted  to  take  breath, 
or  to  quarrel  about  the  best  way  of  reaching  Lon¬ 
don,  pretty  good  order  and  tolerable  silence. 

In  the  mean  time,  Dolly — beautiful,  bewitching, 
captivating  little  Dolly  —  her  hair  disheveled,  her 
dress  torn,  her  dark  eyelashes  wet  with  tears,  her 
bosom  heaving — -her  face,  now  pale  with  fear,  now 
crimsoned  with  indignation — her  whole  self  a  hun¬ 
dred  times  more  beautiful  in  this  heightened  aspect 
than  ever  she  had  been  before — vainly  strove  to 
comfort  Emma  Haredale,  and  to  impart  to  her  the 
consolation  of  which  she  stood  in  so  much  need  her¬ 
self.  The  soldiers  were  sure  to  come;  they  must 
be  rescued ;  it  would  be  impossible  to  convey  them 
through  the  streets  of  London  when  they  set  the 
threats  of  their  guards  at  defiance,  and  shrieked  to 
the  passengers  for  help.  If  they  did  this  when  they 
came  into  the  more  frequented  ways,  she  was  cer¬ 
tain — she  was  quite  certain — they  must  be  released. 
So  poor  Dolly  said,  and  so  poor  Dolly  tried  to  think ; 
but  the  invariable  conclusion  of  all  such  arguments 
was,  that  Dolly  burst  into  tears ;  cried,  as  she  wrung 
her  hands,  what  would  they  do  or  think,  or  who 
would  comfort  them  at  home,  at  the  Golden  Key ; 
and  sobbed  most  piteously. 

Miss  Haredale,  whose  feelings  were  usually  of  a 
quieter  kind  than  Dolly’s,  and  not  so  much  upon  the 
surface,  was  dreadfully  alarmed,  and  indeed  had  only 
just  recovered  from  a  swoon.  She  was  very  pale, 
and  the  hand  which  Dolly  held  was  quite  cold ;  but 
she  bade  her,  nevertheless,  remember  that,  under 
Providence,  much  must  depend  upon  their  own  dis¬ 
cretion  ;  that  if  they  remained  quiet  and  lulled  the 
vigilance  of  the  ruffians  into  whose  hands  they  had  ; 
fallen,  the  chances  of  their  being  able  to  procure  ! 
assistance  when  they  reached  the  town,  were  very  J 
much  increased;  that  unless  society  were  quite  un¬ 
hinged,  that  pursuit  must  be  immediately  com¬ 
menced  ;  and  that  her  uncle,  she  might  be  sure, 
would  never  rest  until  he  had  found  them  out  and 
rescued  them.  But  as  she  said  these  latter  words, 


the  idea  that  he  had  fallen  in  a  general  massacre  of 
the  Catholics  that  night — no  very  wild  or  improba¬ 
ble  supposition  after  what  they  had  seen  and  under¬ 
gone  —  struck  her  dumb ;  and,  lost  in  the  horrors 
they  had  witnessed,  and  those  they  might  be  yet  re¬ 
served  for,  she  sat  incapable  of  thought,  or  speech,  or 
outward  show  of  grief :  as  rigid,  and  almost  as  white 
and  cold,  as  marble. 

Oh,  how  many,  many,  times,  in  that  long  ride,  did 
Dolly  think  of  her  old  lover  —  poor,  fond,  slighted 
Joe!  How  many,  many  times,  did  she  recall  that 
night  when  she  ran  into  his  arms  from  the  very  man 
now  projecting  his  hateful  gaze  into  the  darkness 
where  she  sat,  and  leering  through  the  glass  in  mon¬ 
strous  admiration !  And  when  she  thought  of  Joe, 
and  what  a  brave  fellow  he  was,  and  how  he  would 
have  rode  boldly  up,  and  dashed  in  among  these  vil¬ 
lains  now,  yes,  though  they  were  double  the  number 
— and  here  she  clenched  her  little  hand,  and  pressed 
her  foot  upon  the  ground — the  pride  she  felt  for  a 
moment  in  having  won  his  heart,  faded  in  a  burst 
of  tears,  and  she  sobbed  more  bitterly  than  ever. 

As  the  night  wore  on,  and  they  proceeded  by  ways 
which  were  quite  unknown  to  them — for  they  could 
recognize  none  of  the  objects  of  which  they  some¬ 
times  caught  a  hurried  glimpse  —  their  fears  in¬ 
creased  ;  nor  were  they  without  good  foundation ; 
it  was  not  difficult  for  two  beautiful  young  women 
to  find,  in  their  being  borne  they  knew  not  whither 
by  a  band  of  daring  villains  who  eyed  them  as  some 
among  these  fellows  did,  reasons  for  the  worst 
alarm.  When  they  at  last  entered  London,  by  a 
suburb  with  which  they  were  wholly  unacquainted, 
it  was  past  midnight,  and  the  streets  were  dark  and 
empty.  Nor  was  this  the  worst,  for  the  carriage 
stopping  in  a  lonely  spot,  Hugh  suddenly  opened  the 
door,  jumped  in,  and  took  his  seat  between  them. 

It  was  in  vain  they  cried  for  help.  He  put  his 
arm  about  the  neck  of  each,  and  swore  to  stifle  them 
wfith  kisses,  if  they  were  not  as  silent  as  the  grave. 

“  I  come  here  to  keep  you  quiet,”  he  said,  “  and 
that’s  the  means  I  shall  take.  So  don’t  be  quiet, 
pretty  mistresses — make  a  noise — do — and  I  shall 
like  it  all  the  better.” 

They  were  proceeding  at  a  rapid  pace,  and  appar¬ 
ently  with  fewer  attendants  than  before,  though  it 
was  so  dark  (the  torches  being  extinguished)  that 
this  was  mere  conjecture  They  shrunk  from  his 
touch,  each  into  the  farthest  corner  of  the  carriage ; 
but  shrink  as  Dolly  would,  his  arm  encircled  her 
waist,  and  held  her  fast.  She  neither  cried  nor 
spoke,  for  terror  and  disgust  deprived  her  of  the 
power;  but  she  plucked  at  his  hand  as  though  she 
would  die  in  the  effort  to  disengage  herself ;  and 
crouching  on  the  ground,  with  her  head  averted  and 
held  down,  repelled  him  with  a  strength  she  wonder¬ 
ed  at  as  much  as  he.  The  carriage  stopped  again. 

“  Lift  this  one  out,”  said  Hugh  to  the  man  who 
opened  the  door,  as  he  took  Miss  Haredale’s  hand, 
and  felt  how  heavily  it  fell.  “  She’s  fainted.” 

“So  much  the  better,”  growled  Dennis  —  it  was 
that  amiable  gentleman.  “  She’s  quiet.  I  always 
like  ’em  to  faint,  unless  they’re  very  tender  and 
composed.” 

“  Can  you  take  her  by  yourself?”  asked  Hugh. 

“I  don’t  know  till  I  try.  I  ought  to  be  able  to; 


192 


BARN  A  BY  BUDGE. 


I’ve  lifted  up  a  good  many  in  my  time,”  said  the 
hangman.  “  Up  then !  She’s  no  small  weight,  broth¬ 
er  ;  none  of  these  here  fine  gals  are.  Up  again !  Now 
we  i  have  her.” 

Having  by  this  time  hoisted  the  young  lady  into 
his  arms,  he  staggered  off  with  his  burden. 

“  Look  ye,  pretty  bird,”  said  Hugh,  drawing  Dolly 
toward  him.  “  Kemember  what  I  told  you — a  kiss 
for  every  cry.  Scream,  if  you  love  me,  darling. 
Scream  once,  mistress.  Pretty  mistress,  only  once, 
if  you  love  me.” 

Thrusting  his  face  away  with  all  her  force,  and 
holding  down  her  head,  Dolly  submitted  to  be  car¬ 
ried  out  of  the  chaise,  and  borne  after  Miss  Haredale 
into  a  miserable  cottage,  where  Hugh,  after  hugging 
her  to  his  breast,  set  her  gently  down  upon  the  floor. 

Poor  Dolly !  Do  what  she  would,  she  only  looked 
the  better  for  it,  and  tempted  them  the  more.  When 
her  eyes  flashed  angrily,  and  her  ripe  lips  slightly 
parted,  to  give  her  rapid  breathing  vent,  who  could 
resist  it?  When  she  wept' and  sobbed  as  though 
her  heart  would  break,  and  bemoaned  her  miseries 
in  the  sweetest  voice  that  ever  fell  upon  a  listener’s 
ear,  who  could  be  insensible  to  the  little  winning 
pettishuess  which  now  and  then  displayed  itself, 
even  in  the  sincerity  and  earnestness  of  her  grief? 
When,  forgetful  for  a  moment  of  herself,  as  she  was 
now,  she  fell  on  her  knees  beside  her  friend,  and  bent 
over  her,  and  laid  her  cheek  to  hers,  and  put  her 
arms  about  her,  what  mortal  eyes  could  have  avoid¬ 
ed  wandering  to  the  delicate  bodice,  the  streaming 
hair,  the  neglected  dress,  the  perfect  abandonment 
and  unconsciousness  of  the  blooming  little  beauty? 
Who  could  look  on  and  see  her  lavish  caresses  and 
endearments,  and  not  desire  to  be  in  Emma  Hare- 
dale’s  place;  to  be  either  her  or  Dolly;  either  the 
hugging  or  the  hugged  ?  Not  Hugh.  Not  Dennis. 

“  I  tell  you  what  it  is,  young  woman,”  said  Mr. 
Dennis,  “  I  an’t  much  of  a  lady’s  man  myself,  nor  am 
I  a  party  in  the  present  business  farther  than  lend¬ 
ing  a  willing  hand  to  my  friends :  but  if  I  see  much 
more  of  this  here  sort  of  thing,  I  shall  become  a  prin¬ 
cipal  instead  of  a  accessory.  I  tell  you  candid.” 

“Why  have  you  brought  us  here?”  said  Emma. 
“Are  we  to  be  murdered?” 

“  Murdered !”  cried  Dennis,  sittiug  down  upon  a 
stool,  and  regarding  her  with  great  favor.  “  Why, 
my  dear,  who’d  murder  siuh  chickabiddies  as  you? 
If  you  was  to  ask  me,  now,  whether  you  was  brought 
here  to  be  married,  there  might  be  something  in  it.” 

And  here  he  exchanged  a  grin  with  Hugh,  who 
removed  his  eyes  from  Dolly  for  the  purpose. 

“No,  no,”  said  Dennis,  “tliere’11  be  no  murdering, 
my  pets.  Nothing  of  that  sort.  Quite  the  contrairy.” 

“You  are  an  older  man  than  your  companion,  sir,” 
said  Emma,  trembling.  “  Have  you  no  pity  for  us  ? 
Do  you  not  consider  that  we  are  women  ?” 

“  I  do  indeed,  my  dear,”  retorted  Dennis.  “  It 
would  be  very  hard  not  to,  with  two  such  specimens 
afore  my  eyes.  Ha,  ha !  Oh,  yes,  I  consider  that. 
We  all  consider  that,  miss.” 

He  shook  his  head  waggishly,  leered  at  Hugh 
again,  and  laughed  very  much,  as  if  he  had  said  a 
noble  thing,  and  rather  thought  he  was  coming  out. 

“  There’ll  be  no  murdering,  my  dear.  Not  a  bit 
on  it.  I  tell  you  what  though,  brother,”  said  Den¬ 


nis,  cocking  his  hat  for  the  convenience  of  scratch¬ 
ing  his  head,  and  looking  gravely  at  Hugh,  “  it’s 
worthy  of  notice,  as  a  proof  of  the  amazing  equal¬ 
ness  and  dignity  of  our  law,  that  it  don’t  make  no 
distinction  between  men  and  women.  I’ve  heerd 
the  judge  say,  sometimes,  to  a  highwayman  or  house¬ 
breaker  as  had  tied  the  ladies  neck  and  heels — you’ll 
excuse  me  making  mention  of  it,  my  darlings — and 
put  ’em  in  a  cellar,  that  he  showed  no  consideration 
to  women.  Now,  I  say  that  there  judge  didn’t  know 
his  business,  brother;  and  that  if  I  had  beei^  that 
there  highwayman  or  housebreaker,  I  should  have 
made  answer :  1  What  are  you  talking  of,  my  lord  ? 
I  showed  the  women  as  much  consideration  as  the 
law  does,  and  what  more  would  you  have  me  do  ?’ 
If  you  was  to  count  up  in  the  newspapers  the  num¬ 
ber  of  females  as  have  been  -worked  off  in  this  here 
city  alone,  in  the  last  ten  year,”  said  Mr.  Dennis, 
thoughtfully,  “you’d  be  surprised  at  the  total — 
quite  amazed,  you  would.  There’s  a  dignified  and 
equal  thing;  a  beautiful  thing!  But  we’ve  no  se¬ 
curity  for  its  lasting.  Now  that  they’ve  begun  to 
favor  these  here  Papists,  I  shouldn’t  wonder  if  they 
went  and  altered  even  that,  one  of  these  days.  Upon 
my  soul,  I  shouldn’t.” 

The  subject,  perhaps  from  being  of  too  exclusive 
and  professional  a  nature,  failed  to  interest  Hugh  as 
much  as  his  friend  had  anticipated.  But  he  had  no 
time  to  pursue  it,  for  at  this  crisis  Mr.  Tappertit  en¬ 
tered  precipitately ;  at  sight  of  whom  Dolly  uttered  a 
scream  of  joy,  and  fairly  throw  herself  into  his  arms. 

“  I  knew  it,  I  was  sure  of  it !”  cried  Dolly.  “  My 
dear* father’s  at  the  door.  Thank  God,  thank  God! 
Bless  you,  Sim.  Heaven  bless  you  for  this!” 

Simon  Tappertit,  who  had  at  first  implicitly  be¬ 
lieved  that  the  lock -smith’s  daughter,  unable  any 
longer  to  suppress  her  secret  passion  for  himself, 
was  about  to  give  it  full  vent  in  its  intensity,  aud 
to  declare  that  she  was  his  forever,  looked  extreme¬ 
ly  foolish  when  she  said  these  words ;  the  more  so, 
as  they  were  received  by  Hugh  and  Dennis  with  a 
loud  laugh,  which  made  her  draw  back,  and  regard 
him  with  a  fixed  and  earnest  look. 

“Miss  Haredale,”  said  Sim,  after  a  very  awkward 
silence,  “  I  hope  you’re  as  comfortable  as  circum¬ 
stances  will  permit  of.  Dolly  Varden,  my  darling — 
my  own,  my  lovely  one — I  hope  you're  pretty  com¬ 
fortable  likewise.” 

Poor  little  Dolly !  She  saw  how  it  was ;  hid  her 
face  in  her  hands;  and  sobbed  more  bitterly  than 
ever. 

“You  meet  in  me,  Miss  V.,”  said  Simon,  laying  his 
hand  upon  his  breast,  “not  a  ’prentice,  not  a  work¬ 
man,  not  a  slave,  not  the  wictim  of  your  father’s 
tyrannical  behavior,  but  the  leader  of  a  great  peo¬ 
ple,  the  captain  of  a  noble  band,  in  which  these  gen¬ 
tlemen  are,  as  I  may  say,  corporals  and  sergeants. 
You  behold  in  me,  not  a  private  individual,  but  a 
public  character ;  not  a  mender  of  locks,  but  a  heal¬ 
er  of  the  wounds  of  his  unhappy  country.  Dolly  V., 
sweet  Dolly  V.,  for  how  many  years  have  I  looked 
forward  to  this  present  meeting !  For  how  many 
years  has  it  been  my  intention  to  exalt  and  ennoble 
you!  I  redeem  it.  Behold  in  me,  your  husband. 
Yes,  beautiful  Dolly — charmer  —  enslaver — S.  Tap¬ 
pertit  is  all  your  own !” 


SIMON’S  CAUTION  TO  THE  LADIES. 


193 


As  lie  said  these  words  he  advanced  toward  her. 
Dolly  retreated  till  she  could  go  no  farther,  and  then 
sank  down  upon  the  floor.  Thinking  it  very  possi¬ 
ble  that  this  might  be  maiden  modesty,  Simon  es¬ 
sayed  to  raise  her ;  on  which  Dolly,  goaded  to  des¬ 
peration,  wound  her  hands  in  his  hair,  and  crying 
out  amidst  her  tears  that  he  was  a  dreadful  little 
wretch,  and  always  had  been,  shook,  and  pulled, 
and  beat  him,  until  he  was  fain  to  call  for  help, 
most  lustily.  Hugh  had  never  admired  her  half  so 
much  as  at  that  moment. 

“  She’s  in  an  excited  state  to-night,”  said  Simon, 
as  he  smoothed  his  rumpled  feathers,  “aud  don’t 


said  Simon,  who  had  now  quite  recovered  his  dig¬ 
nity — “  till  to-morrow.  Come  away !” 

“Ay!”  cried  Hugh.  “Come  away,  captain.  Ha, 
ha,  ha!” 

“What  are  you  laughiug  at?”  demanded  Simon, 
sternly. 

“  Nothing,  captain,  nothing,”  Hugh  rejoined ;  and 
as  he  spoke,  and  clapped  his  hand  upon  the  shoul¬ 
der  of  the  little  man,  he  laughed  again,  for  some  un¬ 
known  reason,  with  tenfold  violence. 

Mr.  Tappertit  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot 
with  lofty  scorn  (this  only  made  him  laugh  the 
more),  and  turning  to  the  prisoners,  said : 


know  when  she’s  well  off.  Let  her  be  by  herself 
till  to-morrow,  and  that’ll  bring  her  down  a  little. 
Carry  her  into  the  next  house !” 

Hugh  had  her  in  his  arms  directly.  It  might  be 
that  Mr.  Tappertit’s  heart  was  really  softened  by  her 
distress,  or  it  might  be  that  he  felt  it  in  some  degree 
indecorous  that  his  intended  bride  should  be  strug¬ 
gling  in  the  grasp  of  another  man.  He  commanded 
him,  on  second  thoughts,  to  put  her  down  again,  and 
looked  moodily  on  as  she  flew  to  Miss  Haredale’s 
side,  and  clinging  to  her  dress,  hid  her  flushed  face 
in  its  folds. 

“They  shall  remain  here  together  till  to-morrow,” 

13 


“  You’ll  take  notice,  ladies,  that  this  place  is  well 
watched  on  every  side,  and  that  the  least  noise  is 
certain  to  be  attended  with  unpleasant  consequences. 
You’ll  hear — both  of  you — more  of  our  intentions  to¬ 
morrow.  In  the  mean  time,  don’t  show  yourselves 
at  the  window,  or  appeal  to  any  of  the  people  you 
may  see  pass  it ;  for  if  you  do,  it’ll  be  known  direct¬ 
ly  that  you  come  from  a  Catholic  house,  and  all  the 
exertions  our  men  cau  make,  may  not  be  able  to 
save  your  lives.” 

With  this  last  caution,  which  was  true  enough, 
he  turned  to  the  door,  followed  by  Hugh  and  Den¬ 
nis.  TJhey  paused  for  a  moment,  going  out,  to  look 


194 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


at  them  clasped  in  each  other’s  arms,  and  then  left 
the  cottage ;  fastening  the  door,  and  setting  a  good 
watch  upon  it,  and  indeed  all  round  the  house. 

“  I  say,”  growled  Dennis,  as  they  walked  in  com¬ 
pany,  “  that’s  a  dainty  pair.  Muster  Gashford’s  one 
is  as  handsome  as  the  other,  eh  ?” 

“Hush!”  said  Hugh,  hastily.  “Don’t  you  men¬ 
tion  names.  It’s  a  bad  habit.” 

“I  wouldn’t  like  to  be  him, then  (as  you  don’t  like 
names),  when  he  breaks  it  out  to  her;  that’s  all,” 
said  Dennis.  “  She’s  one  of  them  hue,  black-eyed, 
proud  gals,  as  I  wouldn’t  trust  at  such  times  with 
a  knife  too  near  ’em.  I’ve  seen  some  of  that  sort, 
afore  now.  I  recollect  one  that  was  worked  off, 
many  year  ago — and  there  was  a  gentleman  in  that 
case  too — that  says  to  me,  with  her  lip  a-trembling, 
but  her  hand  as  steady  as  ever  I  see  one :  1  Dennis, 
I’m  near  my  end,  but  if  I  had  a  dagger  in  these  fin¬ 
gers,  and  he  was  within  my  reach,  I’d  strike  him 
dead  afore  me.’  Ah,  she  did — and  she’d  have  done 
it  too !” 

“  Strike  who  dead?”  demanded  Hugh. 

“  How  should  I  know,  brother  ?’’  answered  Dennis. 
“She  never  said;  not  she.” 

Hugh  looked,  for  a  moment,  as  though  he  would 
have  made  some  further  inquiry  into  this  incoherent 
recollection ;  but  Simon  Tappertit,  who  had  been 
meditating  deeply,  gave  his  thoughts  a  new  direc¬ 
tion. 

“Hugh!”  said  Sim.  “You  have  done  well  to¬ 
day.  You  shall  be  rewarded.  So  have  you,  Den¬ 
nis.  There’s  no  young  woman  you  want  to  carry 
off,  is  there  ?” 

“N — no,”  returned  that  gentleman,  stroking  his 
grizzly  beard,  which  was  some  two  inches  long. 
“  None  in  partikler,  I  think.” 

“Very  good,”  said  Sim;  “then  we’ll  find  some 
other  way  of  making  it  up  to  you.  As  to  you,  old 
boy” — he  turned  to  Hugh — “you  shall  have  Miggs 
(her  that  I  promised  you,  you  know)  within  three 
days.  Mind,  I  pass  my  word  for  it.” 

Hugh  thanked  him  heartily ;  and  as  he  did  so,  his 
laughing  fit  returned  with  such  violence  that  he  was 
obliged  to  hold  his  side  with  one  hand,  and  to  lean 
with  the  other  on  the  shoulder  of  his  small  captain, 
without  whose  support  he  would  certainly  have  roll¬ 
ed  upon  the  ground. 


CHAPTER  LX. 

HE  three  worthies  turned  their  faces  toward  The 
Boot,  with  the  intention  of  passing  the  night  in 
that  place  of  rendezvous,  and  of  seeking  the  repose 
they  so  much  needed  in  the  shelter  of  their  old  den  ; 
for  now  that  the  mischief  and  destruction  they  had 
purposed  were  achieved,  and  their  prisoners  were 
safely  bestowed  for  the  night,  they  began  to  be  con¬ 
scious  of  exhaustion,  and  to  feel  the  wasting  effects 
of  the  madness  which  had  led  to  such  deplorable  re¬ 
sults. 

Notwithstanding  the  lassitude  and  fatigue  which 
oppressed  him  now,  in  common  with  his  two  com¬ 
panions,  and  indeed  with  all  who  had  taken  an  active 
share  in  that  night’s  work,  Hugh’s  boisterou#  merri¬ 


ment  broke  out  afresh  whenever  he  looked  at  Simon 
Tappertit,  and  vented  itself — much  to  that  gentle¬ 
man’s  indignation  —  in  such  shouts  of  laughter  as 
bade  fair  to  bring  the  watch  upon  them,  and  involve 
them  in  a  skirmish,  to  which  in  their  present  worn- 
out  condition  they  might  prove  by  no  means  equal. 
Even  Mr.  Dennis,  who  was  not  at  all  particular  on 
the  score  of  gravity  or  dignity,  and  who  had  a  great 
relish  for  his  young  friend’s  eccentric  humors,  took 
occasion  to  remonstrate  with  him  on  this  imprudent 
behavior,  which  he  held  to  be  a  species  of  suicide, 
tantamount  to  a  man’s  working  himself  off  without 
being  overtaken  by  the  law,  than  which  he  could 
imagine  nothing  more  ridiculous  or  impertinent. 

Not  abating  one  jot  of  his  noisj7  mirth  for  these  re¬ 
monstrances,  Hugh  reeled  along  between  them,  hav¬ 
ing  an  arm  of  each,  until  they  hove  in  sight  of  The 
Boot,  and  were  within  a  field  or  two  of  that  conven¬ 
ient  tavern.  He  happened  by  great  good  luck  to 
have  roared  and  shouted  himself  into  silence  by  this 
time.  They  were  proceeding  onward  without  noise, 
when  a  scout  who  had  been  creeping  about  the 
ditches  all  night,  to  warn  any  stragglers  from  en¬ 
croaching  farther  on  what  was  now  such  dangerous 
ground,  peeped  cautiously  from  his  hiding-place,  and 
called  to  them  to  stop. 

“  Stop !  and  why  ?”  said  Hugh. 

Because  (the  scout  replied)  the  house  was  filled 
with  constables  and  soldiers  ;  having  been  surprised 
that  afternoon.  The  inmates  had  fled  or  been  taken 
into  custody,  he  could  not  say  which.  He  had  pre¬ 
vented  a  great  many  people  from  approaching  near¬ 
er,  and  he  believed  they  had  gone  to  the  markets  and 
such  places  to  pass  the  night.  He  had  seen  the  dis¬ 
tant  fires,  but  they  were  all  out  now.  He  had  heard 
the  people  who  passed  and  repassed,  speaking  of 
them  too,  and  could  report  that  the  prevailing  opin¬ 
ion  was  one  of  apprehension  and  dismay.  He  had 
not  heard  a  word  of  Barnaby — didn’t  even  know  his 
name — but  it  had  been  said  in  his  hearing  that  some 
man  had  been  taken  and  carried  off  to  Newgate. 
Whether  this  was  true  or  false,  he  could  not  affirm. 

The  three  took  counsel  together,  on  hearing  this, 
and  debated  what  it  might  be  best  to  do.  Hugh, 
deeming  it  possible  that  Barnaby  was  in  the  hands 
of  the  soldiers,  and  at  that  moment  under  detention 
at  The  Boot,  was  for  advancing  stealthily,  and  firing 
the  house ;  but  his  companions,  who  objected  to  such 
rash  measures  unless  they  had  a  crowd  at  their  backs, 
represented  that  if  Barnaby  were  taken  he  had  as¬ 
suredly  been  removed  to  a  stronger  prison ;  they 
would  never  have  dreamed,  he  said,  of  keeping  him 
all  night  in  a  place  so  weak  and  open  to  attack. 
Yielding  to  this  reasoning,  and  to  their  persuasions, 
Hugh  consented  to  turn  back,  and  to  repair  to  Fleet 
Market ;  for  which  place,  it  seemed,  a  few  of  their 
boldest  associates  had  shaped  their  course,  on  receiv¬ 
ing  the  same  intelligence. 

Feeling  their  strength  recruited  and  their  spirits 
roused,  now  that  there  was  new  necessity  for  action, 
they  hurried  away  quite  forgetful  of  the  fatigue  un¬ 
der  which  they  had  been  sinking  but  a  few  minutes 
before;  and  soon  arrived  at  their  new  place  of  desti¬ 
nation. 

Fleet  Market,  at  that  time,  was  a  long  irregular 
row  of  wooden  sheds  and  pent-houses,  occupying  the 


DOWN  WITH  THE  JAIL. 


195 


centre  of  what  is  now  called  Farriugdon  Street. 
They  were  jumbled  together  in  a  most  unsightly 
fashion,  in  the  middle  of  the  road;  to  the  great  ob¬ 
struction  of  the  thoroughfare  and  the  annoyance 
of  passengers,  who  were  fain  to  make  their  way, 
as  they  best  could,  among  carts,  baskets,  barrows, 
trucks,  casks,  bulks,  and  benches,  and  to  jostle  with 
porters,  hucksters,  wagoners,  and  a  motley  crowd 
of  buyers,  sellers,  pickpockets,  vagrants,  and  idlers. 
The  air  was  perfumed  with  the  stench  of  rotten 
leaves  and  faded  fruit ;  the  refuse  of  the  butchers’ 
stalls,  and  offal  and  garbage  of  a  hundred  kinds.  It 
was  indispensable  to  most  public  conveniences  in 
those  days,  that  they  should  be  public  nuisances 
likewise ;  and  Fleet  Market  maintained  the  princi¬ 
ple  to  admiration. 

To  this  place,  perhaps  because  its  sheds  and  bas¬ 
kets  were  a  tolerable  substitute  for  beds,  or  perhaps 
because  it  afforded  the  means  of  a  hasty  barricade 
in  case  of  need,  many  of  the  rioters  had  straggled, 
not  only  that  night,  but  for  two  or  three  nights  be¬ 
fore.  It  was  now  broad  day,  but  the  morning  being 
cold,  a  group  of  them  were  gathered  round  a  fire  in 
a  public-house,  drinking  hot  purl,  and  smoking  pipes, 
and  planning  new  schemes  for  to-morrow. 

Hugh  and  his  two  friends  being  known  to  most 
of  these  men,  were  received  with  signal  marks  of 
approbation,  and  inducted  into  the  most  honorable 
seats.  The  room  door  was  closed  and  fastened  to 
keep  intruders  at  a  distance,  and  then  they  proceed¬ 
ed  to  exchange  news. 

“  The  soldiers  have  taken  possession  of  The  Boot, 
I  hear,”  said  Hugh.  “  Who  knows  any  thing  about 
it?” 

Several  cried  that  they  did ;  but  the  majority  of 
the  company  having  been  engaged  in  the  assault 
upon  the  Warren,  and  all  present  having  been  con¬ 
cerned  in  one  or  other  of  the  night’s  expeditions,  it 
proved  that  they  knew  no  more  than  Hugh  himself ; 
having  been  merely  warned  by  each  other,  or  by  the 
scout,  and  knowing  nothing  of  their  own  knowledge. 

“We  left  a  man  on  guard  there  to-day,”  said 
Hugh,  looking  round  him,  “who  is  not  here.  You 
know  who  it  is — Barnaby,  who  brought  the  soldier 
down,  at  Westminster.  Has  any  man  seen  or  heard 
of  him  ?” 

They  shook  their  heads,  and  murmured  an  answer 
in  the  negative,  as  each  man  looked  round  and  ap¬ 
pealed  to  his  fellow ;  when  a  noise  was  heard  with¬ 
out,  and  a  man  was  heard  to  say  that  he  wanted 
Hugh — that  he  must  see  Hugh. 

“He  is  but  one  man,”  cried  Hugh  to  those  who 
kept  the  door;  “let  him  come  in.” 

“Ay,  ay!”  muttered  the  others.  “Let  him  come 
in.  Let  him  come  in.” 

The  door  was  accordingly  unlocked  and  opened. 
A  one-armed  man,  with  his  head  and  face  tied  up 
with  a  bloody  cloth,  as  though  he  had  been  severely 
beaten,  his  clothes  torn,  and  his  remaining  hand 
grasping  a  thick  stick,  rushed  in  among  them,  and 
panting  for  breath,  demanded  which  was  Hugh. 

“  Here  he  is,”  replied  the  person  he  inquired  for. 
“  I  am  Hugh.  What  do  you  want  with  me  ?” 

“I  have  a  message  for  you,”  said  the  man.  “You 
know  one  Barnaby.” 

“  What  of  him  ?  Did  he  send  the  message  ?” 


“  Yes.  He’s  taken.  He’s  in  one  of  the  strong  cells 
in  Newgate.  He  defended  himself  as  well  as  he 
could,  but  was  overpowered  by  numbers.  That’s  his 
message.” 

“  When  did  you  see  him?”  asked  Hugh,  hastily. 

“On  his  way  to  prison,  where  he  was  taken  by  a 
party  of  soldiers.  They  took  a  by-road,  and  not  the 
one  we  expected.  I  was  one  of  the  few  who  tried  to 
rescue  him,  and  he  called  to  me,  and  told  me  to  tell 
Hugh  where  he  was.  We  made  a  good  struggle, 
though  it  failed.  Look  here!” 

He  pointed  to  Ids  dress  and  to  his  bandaged  head, 
and  still  panting  for  breath,  glanced  round  the  room ; 
then  faced  toward  Hugh  again. 

“  I  know  you  by  sight,”  he  said,  “for  I  was  in  the 
crowd  on  Friday,  and  on  Saturday,  and  yesterday, 
but  I  didn’t  know  your  name.  You’re  a  bold  fellow, 
I  know.  So  is  he.  He  fought  like  a  lion  to-night, 
but  it  was  of  no  use.  I  did  my  best,  considering 
that  I  want  this  limb.” 

Again  he  glanced  inquisitively  round  the  room — 
or  seemed  to  do  so,  for  his  face  was  nearly  hidden 
by  the  bandage— and  again  facing  sharply  toward 
Hugh,  grasped  his  stick  as  if  he  half  expected  to  be 
set  upon,  and  stood  on  the  defensive. 

If  he  had  any  such  apprehension,  however,  he  was 
speedily  re-assured  by  the  demeanor  of  all  present. 
None  thought  of  the  bearer  of  the  tidings.  He  was 
lost  in  the  news  he  brought.  Oaths,  threats,  and 
execrations  were  vented  on  all  sides.  Some  cried 
that  if  they  bore  this  tamely,  another  day  would  see 
them  all  in  jail ;  some,  that  they  should  have  rescued 
the  other  prisoners,  and  this  would  not  have  hap¬ 
pened.  One  man  cried  in  a  loud  voice,  “  Who’ll  fol¬ 
low  me  to  Newgate!”  and  there  was  a  loud  shout 
and  general  rush  toward  the  door. 

But  Hugh  and  Dennis  stood  with  their  backs 
against  it,  and  kept  them  back,  until  the  clamor 
had  so  far  subsided  that  their  voices  could  be  heard, 
when  they  called  to  them  together  that  to  go  now, 
in  broad  day,  would  be  madness ;  and  that  if  they 
waited  until  night  and  arranged  a  plan  of  attack, 
they  might  release,  uot  only  their  own  companions, 
but  all  the  prisoners,  and  burn  down  the  jail. 

“  Not  that  jail  alone,”  cried  Hugh,  “  but  every  jail 
in  London.  They  shall  have  no  place  to  put  their 
prisoners  in.  We’ll  burn  them  all  down  ;  make  bon¬ 
fires  of  them  every  one !  Here  !”  he  cried,  catching 
at  the  hangman’s  hand.  “  Let  all  who  ’re  men  here, 
join  with  us.  Shake  hands  upon  it.  Barnaby  out 
of  jail,  and  not  a  jail  left  standing !  Who  joins  ?” 

Every  man  there.  And  they  swore  a  great  oath 
to  release  their  friends  from  Newgate  next  night ; 
to  force  the  doors  and  burn  the  jail ;  or  perish  in  the 
fire  themselves. 


CHAPTER  LXI. 

ON  that  same  night — events  so  crowd  upon  each 
other  in  convulsed  and  distracted  times,  that 
more  than  the  stirring  incidents  of  a  whole  life  oft¬ 
en  become  compressed  into  the  compass  of  four-and- 
twenty  hours — on  that  same  night,  Mr.  Haredale, 
having  strongly  bound  his  prisoner,  with  the  assist- 


196 


BABKABY  BUDGE. 


auce  of  tlie  sexton,  and  forced  him  to  mount  his 
horse,  conducted  him  to  Chigwell;  bent  upon  pro¬ 
curing  a  conveyance  to  London  from  that  place,  and 
carrying  him  at  once  before  a  justice.  The  disturb¬ 
ed  state  of  the  town  would  be,  he  knew,  a  sufficient 
reason  for  demanding  the  murderer’s  committal  to 
prison  before  day-break,  as  no  man  could  answer  for 
the  security  of  any  of  the  watch-houses  or  ordinary 
places  of  detention ;  and  to  convey  a  prisoner  through 
the  streets  when  the  mob  were  again  abroad,  would 
not  only  be  a  task  of  great  danger  and  hazard,  but 
would  be  to  challenge  an  attempt  at  rescue.  Di¬ 
recting  the  sexton  to  lead  the  horse,  he  walked  close 
by  the  murderer’s  side,  and  in  this  order  they  reach¬ 
ed  the  village  about  the  middle  of  the  night. 

The  people  were  all  awake  and  up,  for  they  were 
fearful  of  being  burned  in  their  beds,  and  sought  to 
comfort  and  assure  each  other  by  watching  in  com¬ 
pany.  A  few  of  the  stoutest -hearted  were  armed 
and  gathered  in  a  body  on  the  green.  To  these, 
who  knew  him  well,  Mr.  Haredale  addressed  himself, 
briefly  narrating  what  had  happened,  and  beseeching 
them  to  aid  in  conveying  the  criminal  to  London  be¬ 
fore  the  dawn  of  day. 

But  not  a  man  among  them  dared  to  help  him  by 
so  much  as  the  motion  of  a  finger.  The  rioters,  in 
their  passage  through  the  village,  had  menaced  with 
their  fiercest  vengeance,  any  person  who  should  aid 
in  extinguishing  the  fire,  or  render  the  least  assist¬ 
ance  to  him,  or  any  Catholic  whomsoever.  Their 
threats  extended  to  their  lives  and  all  they  possess¬ 
ed.  They  were  assembled  for  their  own  protection, 
and  could  not  endanger  themselves  by  lending  any 
aid  to  him.  This  they  told  him,  not  without  hesita¬ 
tion  and  regret,  as  they  kept  aloof  in  the  moonlight 
and  glanced  fearfully  at  the  ghostly  rider,  who,  with 
his  head  drooping  on  his  breast  and  his  hat  slouched 
down  upon  his  brow,  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

Finding  it  impossible  to  persuade  them,  and  in¬ 
deed  hardly  knowing  how  to  do  so  after  what  they 
had  seen  of  the  fury  of  the  crowd,  Mr.  Haredale  be¬ 
sought  them  that  at  least  they  would  leave  him  free 
to  act  for  himself,  and  would  suffer  him  to  take  the 
only  chaise  and  pair  of  horses  that  the  place  afford¬ 
ed.  This  was  not  acceded  to  without  some  difficul¬ 
ty,  but  in  the  end  they  told  him  to  do  what  he  would, 
and  go  away  from  them  in  Heaven’s  name. 

Leaving  the  sexton  at  the  horse’s  bridle,  he  drew 
out  the  chaise  with  his  own  hands,  and  would  have 
harnessed  the  horses,  but  that  the  post-boy  of  the 
village — a  soft-hearted,  good-for-nothing,  vagabond 
kind  of  fellow — was  moved  by  his  earnestness  and 
passion,  and,  throwing  down  a  pitchfork  with  which 
he  was  armed,  swore  that  the  rioters  might  cut  him 
into  mince-meat  if  they  liked,  but  he  would  not  stand 
by  and  see  an  honest  gentleman  who  had  done  no 
wrong,  reduced  to  such  extremity,  without  doing 
what  lie  could  to  help  him.  Mr.  Haredale  shook 
him  warmly  by  the  hand,  and  thanked  him  from  his 
heart.  In  five  minutes’  time  the  chaise  was  ready, 
and  this  good  scape-grace  in  his  saddle.  The  mur¬ 
derer  was  put  inside,  the  blinds  were  drawn  up,  the 
sexton  took  his  seat  upon  the  bar,  Mr.  Haredale 
mounted  his  horse  and  rode  close  beside  the  door ; 
and  so  they  started  in  the  dead  of  night,  and  in  pro¬ 
found  silence,  for  London. 


The  consternation  was  so  extreme  that  even  the 
horses  which  had  escaped  the  flames  at  the  Warren, 
could  find  no  friends  to  shelter  them.  They  passed 
them  on  the  road,  browsing  on  the  stunted  grass ; 
and  the  driver  told  them,  that  the  poor  beasts  had 
wandered  to  the  village  first,  but  had  been  driven 
away,  lest  they  should  bring  the  vengeance  of  the 
crowd  on  any  of  the  inhabitants. 

Nor  was  this  feeling  confined  to  such  small  places, 
where  the  people  were  timid,  ignorant,  and  unpro¬ 
tected.  When  they  came  near  London  they  met,  in 
the  gray  light  of  morning,  more  than  one  poor  Cath¬ 
olic  family  who,  terrified  by  the  threats  and  warn¬ 
ings  of  their  neighbors,  were  quitting  the  city  on 
foot,  and  who  told  them  they  could  hire  no  cart  or 
horse  for  the  removal  of  their  goods,  and  had  been 
compelled  to  leave  them  behind,  at  the  mercy  of  the 
crowd.  Near  Mile-end  they  passed  a  house,  the  mas¬ 
ter  of  which,  a  Catholic  gentleman  of  small  means, 
having  hired  a  wagon  to  remove  his  furniture  by 
midnight,  had  had  it  all  brought  down  into  the 
street,  to  wait  the  vehicle’s  arrival,  and  save  time  in 
the  packing.  But  the  man  with  whom  he  made  the 
bargain,  alarmed  by  the  fires  that  night,  and  by  the 
sight  of  the  rioters  passing  his  door,  had  refused  to 
keep  it :  and  the  poor  gentleman,  with  his  wife  and 
servant  and  their  little  children,  were  sitting  trem¬ 
bling  among  their  goods  in  the  open  street,  dreading 
the  arrival  of  day  and  not  knowing  where  to  turn 
or  what  to  do. 

It  was  the  same,  they  heard,  with  the  public  con¬ 
veyances.  The  panic  was  so  great  that  the  mails 
and  stage-coaches  were  afraid  to  carry  passengers 
who  professed  the  obnoxious  religion.  If  the  drivers 
knew  them,  or  they  admitted  that  they  held  that 
creed,  they  would  not  take  them,  no,  though  they 
offered  large  sums ;  and  yesterday,  people  had  been 
afraid  to  recognize  Catholic  acquaintance  in  the 
streets,  lest  they  should  be  marked  by  spies,  and 
burned  out,  as  it  was  called,  in  consequence.  One 
mild  old  man — a  priest,  whose  chapel  was  destroyed ; 
a  very  feeble,  patient,  inoffensive  creature — w  ho  was 
trudging  away,  alone,  designing  to  walk  some  dis¬ 
tance  from  towm,  and  then  try  his  fortune  writh  the 
coaches,  told  Mr.  Haredale  that  he  feared  he  might 
not  find  a  magistrate  who  would  have  the  hardihood 
to  commit  a  prisoner  to  jail,  on  his  complaint.  But 
notwithstanding  these  discouraging  accounts  they 
went  on,  and  reached  the  Mansion  House  soon  after 
sunrise. 

Mr.  Haredale  threw  himself  from  his  horse,  but 
he  had  no  need  to  knock  at  the  door,  for  it  wras  al¬ 
ready  open,  and  there  stood  upon  the  step  a  portly 
old  man,  with  a  very  red,  or  rather  purple  face,  vrho 
with  an  anxious  expression  of  countenance,  wras  re¬ 
monstrating  with  some  unseen  personage  up  stairs, 
vffiile  the  porter  essayed  to  close  the  door  by  de¬ 
grees  and  get  rid  of  him.  With  the  intense  impa¬ 
tience  and  excitement  natural  to  one  in  his  condi¬ 
tion,  Mr.  Haredale  thrust  himself  forward  and  wras 
about  to  speak,  when  the  fat  old  gentleman  inter¬ 
posed  : 

“  My  good  sir,”  said  he,  “  pray  let  me  get  an  an¬ 
swer.  This  is  the  sixth  time  I  have  been  here.  I 
was  here  five  times  yesterday.  My  house  is  threat¬ 
ened  with  destruction.  It  is  to  be  burned  dowm 


THE  LORD  MAYOR, 


197 


to-night,  and  was  to  have  been  last  night,  but  they 
had  other  business  on  their  hands.  Pray  let  me  get 
aii  answer.” 

“My  good  sir,”  returned  Mr.  Haredale,  shaking 
his  head,  “  my  house  is  burned  to  the  ground.  But 
Heaven  forbid  that  yours  should  be.  Get  your  an¬ 
swer.  Be  brief,  in  mercy  to  me.” 


can’t  go  and  be  a-rebuilding  of  people’s  houses,  my 
good  sir.  Stuff  and  nonsense!” 

“  But  the  chief  magistrate  of  the  city  can  prevent 
people’s  houses  from  having  any  need  to  be  rebuilt, 
if  the  chief  magistrate’s  a  man,  and  not  a  dummy 
— can’t  he,  my  lord  ?”  cried  the  old  gentleman  in  a 
choleric  manner. 


“  Now,  you  hear  this,  my  lord  ?”  said  the  old 
gentleman,  calling  up  the  stairs,  to  where  the  skirt 
of  a  dressing-gown  fluttered  on  the  landing  place. 
“  Here  is  a  gentleman  here,  whose  house  was  actual¬ 
ly  burned  down  last  night.” 

“Dear  me,  dear  me,”  replied  a  testy  voice,  “I 
am  very  sorry  for  it,  but  what  am  I  to  do  ?  I  can’t 
build  it  up  again.  The  chief  magistrate  of  the  city 


“  You  are  disrespectable,  sir,”  said  the  Lord  Mayor 
— “leastways,  disrespectful  I  mean.” 

“ Disrespectful,  my  lord!”  returned  the  old  gen¬ 
tleman.  “  I  was  respectful  five  times  yesterday.  I 
can’t  be  respectful  forever.  Men  can’t  stand  on 
being  respectful  when  their  houses  are  going  to  be 
burned  over  their  heads,  with  them  in  ’em.  What  am 
I  to  do,  my  lord  ?  Am  I  to  have  any  protection  ?” 


198 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“  I  told  yon  yesterday,  sir,”  said  tlie  Lord  Mayor, 
“that  you  might  have  an  alderman  in  your  house, 
if  you  could  get  one  to  come.” 

“  What  the  devil’s  the  good  of  an  alderman  ?”  re¬ 
turned  the  choleric  old  gentleman. 

“ — To  awe  the  crowd,  sir,”  said  the  Lord  Mayor. 

“  Oh  Lord  lia’  mercy !”  whimpered  the  old  gentle¬ 
man,  as  he  wiped  his  forehead  in  a  state  of  ludicrous 
distress,  “  to  think  of  sending  an  alderman  to  awe  a 
crowd!  Why,  my  lord,  if  they  were  even  so  many 
babies,  fed  on  mother’s  milk,  what  do  you  think 
they’d  care  for  an  alderman  ?  Will  you  come  ?” 

“  I !”  said  the  Lord  Mayor,  most  emphatically. 
“  Certainly  not.” 

“  Then  what,”  returned  the  old  gentleman,  “  what 
am  I  to  do?  Am  I  a  citizen  of  England?  Am  I  to 
have  the  benefit  of  the  laws  ?  Am  I  to  have  any  re¬ 
turn  for  the  King’s  taxes  ?” 

“  I  don’t  know,  I  am  sure,”  said  the  Lord  Mayor ; 
“what  a  pity  it  is  you’re  a  Catholic!  Why  couldn’t 
you  be  a  Protestant,  and  then  you  wouldn’t  have 
got  yourself  into  such  a  mess?  I’m  sure  I  don’t 
know  what’s  to  be  done.  There  are  great  people 
at  the  bottom  of  these  riots.  Oh  dear  me,  what  a 
thing  it  is  to  be  a  public  character!  You  must  look 
in  again  in  the  course  of  the  day.  Would  a  javelin- 
man  do  ?  Or  there’s  Philips  the  constable — he's  dis¬ 
engaged — lie’s  not  very  old  for  a  man  at  his  time  of 
life,  except  in  his  legs,  and  if  you  put  him  up  at  a 
window  he’d  look  quite  young  by  candle-light,  and 
might  frighten  ’em  very  much.  Oh  dear ! — well — 
we’ll  see  about  it.” 

“  Stop!”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  pressing  the  door  open 
as  the  porter  strove  to  shut  it,  and  speaking  rapid¬ 
ly.  “My  Lord  Mayor,  I  beg  you  not  to  go  away. 
I  have  a  man  here,  who  committed  a  murder  eight- 
and-twenty  years  ago.  Half  a  dozen  words  from 
me,  on  oath,  will  justify  you  in  committing  him  to 
prison  for  re-examination.  I  only  seek,  just  now,  to 
have  him  consigned  to  a  place  of  safety.  The  least 
delay  may  involve  his  being  rescued  by  the  rioters.” 

“  Oh  dear  me !”  cried  the  Lord  Mayor.  “  God 
bless  my  soul — and  body — oh  Lor ! — well  I ! — there 
are  great  people  at  the  bottom  of  these  riots,  you 
know.  You  really  mustn’t.” 

“  My  lord,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “the  murdered  gen¬ 
tleman  was  my  brother ;  I  succeeded  to  his  inherit¬ 
ance  ;  there  were  not  wanting  slanderous  tongues  at 
that  time,  to  whisper  that  the  guilt  of  this  most  foul 
and  cruel  deed  was  mine — mine,  who  loved  him,  as 
he  knows,  in  heaven,  dearly.  The  time  has  come, 
after  all  these  years  of  gloom  and  misery,  for  aven¬ 
ging  him,  and  bringing  to  light  a  crime  so  artful  and 
so  devilish  that  it  has  no  parallel.  Every  second’s 
delay  on  your  part  loosens  this  man’s  bloody  hands 
again,  and  leads  to  his  escape.  My  lord,  I  charge 
you  hear  me,  and  dispatch  this  matter  on  the  in¬ 
stant.” 

“  Oh  dear  me !”  cried  the  chief  magistrate ;  “  these 
an’t  business  hours,  you  know — I  wonder  at  you — 
how  ungentlemauly  it  is  of  you — you  mustn’t — yon 
really  mustn’t.  And  I  suppose  you  are  a  Catholic, 
too  ?” 

“  I  am,”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  God  bless  my  soul,  I  believe  people  turn  Catho¬ 
lics  a-purpose  to  vex  and  worrit  me,”  cried  the  Lord 


Mayor.  “  I  wish  you  wouldn’t  come  here ;  they’ll 
be  setting  the  Mansion  House  afire  next,  and  we 
shall  have  you  to  thank  for  it.  You  must  lock  your 
prisoner  up,  sir — give  him  to  a  watchman — and — 
and  call  again  at  a  proper  time.  Then  we’ll  see 
about  it !” 

Before  Mr.  Haredale  could  answer,  the  sharp  clos¬ 
ing  of  a  door  and  drawing  of  its  bolts,  gave  notice 
that  the  Lord  Mayor  had  retreated  to  his  bedroom, 
and  that  further  remonstrance  would  be  unavailing. 
The  two  clients  retreated  likewise,  and  the  porter 
shut  them  out  into  the  street. 

“  That’s  the  way  be  puts  me  off,”  said  the  old  gen¬ 
tleman  ;  “  I  can  get  no  redress  and  no  help.  What 
are  you  going  to  do,  sir?” 

“  To  try  elsewhere,”  answered  Mr.  Haredale,  who 
was  by  this  time  on  horseback. 

“  I  feel  for  you,  I  assure  you — and  well  I  may,  for 
we  are  in  a  common  cause,”  said  the  old  gentleman. 
“I  may  not  have  a  house  to  offer  you  to-night; 
let  me  tender  it  while  I  can.  On  second  thoughts, 
though,”  he  added,  putting  up  a  pocket-book  he  had 
produced  while  speaking,  “  I’ll  not  give  you  a  card, 
for  if  it  was  found  upon  you,  it  might  get  you  into 
trouble.  Langdale — that’s  my  name — vintner  and 
distiller — Holborn  Hill — you’re  heartily  welcome,  if 
you’ll  come.” 

Mr.  Haredale  bowed,  and  rode  off,  close  beside  the 
chaise  as  before ;  determining  to  repair  to  the  house 
of  Sir  John  Fielding,  who  had  the  reputation  of  be¬ 
ing  a  bold  and  active  magistrate,  and  fully  resolved, 
in  case  the  rioters  should  come  upon  them,  to  do  ex¬ 
ecution  on  the  murderer  with  his  own  hands,  rather 
than  suffer  him  to  be  released. 

They  arrived  at  the  magistrate’s  dwelling,  how¬ 
ever,  without  molestation  (for  the  mob,  as  we  have 
seen,  were  then  intent  on  deeper  schemes),  and 
knocked  at  the  door.  As  it  had  been  pretty  gener¬ 
ally  rumored  that  Sir  Jolm  was  proscribed  by  the 
rioters,  a  body  of  thief- takers  had  been  keeping 
w  atch  in  the  house  all  night.  To  one  of  them  Mr. 
Haredale  stated  his  business,  which  appearing  to 
the  man  of  sufficient  moment  to  warrant ‘his  arous- 
ing  the  justice,  procured  him  an  immediate  audi¬ 
ence. 

No  time  was  lost  in  committing  the  murderer  to 
Newgate;  then  a  new  building,  recently  completed 
at  a  vast  expense,  and  considered  to  be  of  enormous 
strength.  The  warrant  being  made  out,  three  of 
the  thief- takers  bound  him  afresh  (he  had  been 
struggling,  it  seemed,  in  the  chaise,  and  had  loosen¬ 
ed  his  manacles) ;  gagged  him  lest  they  should  meet 
with  any  of  the  mob,  and  he  should  call  to  them  for 
help ;  and  seated  themselves,  along  wdth  him  in  the 
carriage.  These  men  being  all  wrell  armed,  made 
a  formidable  escort ;  but  they  drew  up  the  blinds 
again,  as  though  the  carriage  were  empty,  and  di¬ 
rected  Mr.  Haredale  to  ride  forward,  that  he  might 
not  attract  attention  by  seeming  to  belong  to  it. 

The  wisdom  of  this  proceeding  wras  sufficiently 
obvious,  for  as  they  hurried  through  the  city  they 
passed  among  several  groups  of  men,  wdio,  if  they 
had  not  supposed  the  chaise  to  be  quite  empty, 
would  certainly  have  stopped  it.  But  those  within 
keeping  quite  close,  and  the  driver  tarrying  to  be 
asked  no  questions,  they  reached  the  prison  without 


THE  MURDERER  IN  NEWGATE. 


199 


interruption,  and,  once  there,  had  him  out,  and  safe 
within  its  gloomy  walls,  in  a  twinkling. 

With  eager  eyes  and  strained  attention,  Mr.  Hare- 
dale  saw  him  chained,  and  locked  and  barred,  up  in 
his  cell.  Nay,  when  he  had  left  the  jail,  and  stood 
in  the  free  street,  without,  he  felt  the  iron  plates 
upon  the  doors,  with  his  hands,  and  drew  them  over 
the  stone  wall,  to  assure  himself  that  it  was  real ; 
and  to  exult  in  its  being  so  strong,  and  rough,  and 
cold.  It  was  not  until  he  turned  his  back  upon  the 
jail,  and  glanced  along  the  empty  streets,  so  lifeless 
and  quiet  in  the  bright  morning,  that  he  felt  the 
weight  upon  his  heart ;  that  he  knew  he  was  tor¬ 
tured  by  anxiety  for  those  he  had  left  at  home  ;  and 
that  home  itself  was  but  another  bead  in  the  long 
rosary  of  his  regrets. 

- ♦» - 

CHAPTER  LXII. 

THE  prisoner,  left  to  himself,  sat  down  upon  his 
bedstead :  and  resting  his  elbows  on  his  knees, 
and  his  chin  upon  his  hands,  remained  in  that  atti¬ 
tude  for  hours.  It  would  be  hard  to  say,  of  what 
nature  his  reflections  were.  They  had  no  distinct¬ 
ness,  and,  saving  for  some  flashes  now  and  then,  no 
reference  to  his  condition  or  the  train  of  circum¬ 
stances  by  which  it  had  been  brought  about.  The 
cracks  iu  the  pavement  of  his  cell,  the  chinks  in  the 
wall  where  stone  was  joined  to  stone,  the  bars  in  the 
window,  the  iron  ring  upon  the  floor — such  things 
as  these,  subsiding  strangely  into  one  another, 
and  awakening  an  indescribable  kiud  of  interest 
and  amusement,  engrossed  his  whole  mind ;  and 
although  at  the  bottom  of  his  every  thought  there 
was  an  uneasy  sense  of  guilt,  and  dread  of  death,  he 
felt  no  more  than  that  vague  consciousness  of  it 
which  a  sleeper  has  of  pain.  It  pursues  him  through 
his  dreams,  gnaws  at  the  heart-  of  all  his  fancied 
pleasures,  robs  the  banquet  of  its  taste,  music  of  its 
sweetness,  makes  happiness  itself  unhappy,  and  yet 
is  no  bodily  sensation,  but  a  phantom  without  shape, 
or  form,  or  visible  presence ;  pervading  every  thing, 
but  having  no  existence ;  recognizable  everywhere, 
but  nowhere  seen,  or  touched,  or  met  with  face  to 
face,  until  the  sleep  is  past,  and  waking  agony  re¬ 
turns. 

After  a  long  time  the  door  of  his  cell  opened.  He 
looked  up ;  saw  the  blind  man  enter;  and  relapsed 
into  his  former  position. 

Guided  by  his  breathing,  the  visitor  advanced  to 
where  he  sat ;  and  stopping  beside  him,  and  stretch¬ 
ing  out  his  hand  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  right, 
remained,  for  a  good  space,  silent. 

“  This  is  bad,  Rudge.  This  is  bad,”  he  said  at 
length. 

The  prisoner  shuffled  with  his  feet  upon  the 
ground  in  turning  his  body  from  him,  but  made  no 
other  answer. 

“  How  were  you  taken  ?”  he  asked.  “And  where  ? 
You  never  told  me  more  than  half  your  secret.  No 
matter ;  I  know  it  now.  How  was  it,  and  where, 
eh  ?”  he  asked  again,  coming  still  nearer  to  him. 

“At  Chigwell,” said  the  other. 

“At  Chigwell!  How  came  you  there ?” 


“  Because  I  went  there  to  avoid  the  man  I  stum¬ 
bled  on,”  he  answered.  “  Because  I  was  chased 
and  driven  there,  by  him  and  Fate.  Because  I  was 
urged  to  go  there,  by  something  stronger  than  my 
own  will*.  When  I  found  him  watching  in  the  house 
she  used  to  live  iu,  night  after  night,  I  knew  I  nev¬ 
er  could  escape  him — never !  and  when  1  heard  the 
Bell—” 

He  shivered ;  muttered  that  it  was  very  cold ; 
paced  quickly  up  and  down  the  narrow  cell ;  and 
sitting  down  again,  fell  into  his  old  posture. 

“  You  were  saying,”  said  the  blind  man,  after  an¬ 
other  pause,  “  that  when  you  heard  the  Bell — ” 

“Let  it  be,  will  you?”  he  retorted,  in  a  hurried 
voice.  “  It  hangs  there  yet.” 

The  blind  man  turned  a  wistful  and  inquisitive 
face  toward  him,  but  he  continued  to  speak,  without 
noticing  him. 

“  I  went  to  Chigwell  in  search  of  the  mob.  I  have 
been  so  hunted  and  beset  by  this  man,  that  I  knew 
my  only  hope  of  safety  lay  in  joining  them.  They 
had  gone  on  before;  I  followed  them  when  it  left 
off.” 

“  When  what  left  off?” 

“  The  Bell.  They  had  quitted  the  place.  I  hoped 
that  some  of  them  might  be  still  lingering  among 
the  ruins,  and  was  searching  for  them  when  I 
heard” — he  drew  a  long  breath,  and  wiped  his  fore¬ 
head  with  his  sleeve — “  his  voice.” 

“  Saying  what  ?” 

“  No  matter  what.  I  don’t  know.  I  was  then  at 
the  foot  of  the  turret,  where  I  did  the — ” 

“Ay,”  said  the  blind  man,  nodding  his  head  with 
perfect  composure,  “I  understand.” 

“I  climbed  the  stair,  or  so  much  of  it  as  was  left; 
meaning  to  hide  till  he  had  gone.  But  he  heard  me; 
and  followed  almost  as  soon  as  I  set  foot  upon  the 
ashes.” 

“Yon  might  have  hidden  in  the  wall,  and  thrown 
him  down,  or  stabbed  him,”  said  the  blind  man. 

“  Might  I  ?  Between  that  man  and  me,  was  one 
who  led  him  on— I  saw  it,  though  he  did  not — and 
raised  above  his  head  a  bloody  hand.  It  was  in  the 
room  above  that  he  and  I  stood  glaring  at  each  oth¬ 
er  on  the  night  of  the  murder,  and  before  he  fell  he 
raised  his  hand  like  that,  and  fixed  his  eyes  on  me. 
I  knew  the  chase  would  end  there.” 

“  You  have  a  strong  fancy,”  said  the  blind  man, 
with  a  smile. 

“  Strengthen  yours  with  blood,  aud  see  what  it 
will  come  to.” 

He  groaned,  and  rocked  himself,  and  looking  up, 
for  the  first  time,  said,  in  a  low,  hollow  Amice : 

“  Eight  -  and- twenty  years!  Eight  -  and -twenty 
years !  He  has  ne%Ter  changed  in  all  that  time,  nev¬ 
er  grown  older,  nor  altered  in  the  least  degree.  He 
has  been  before  me  in  the  dark  night,  and  the  broad 
sunny  day  ;  in  the  twilight,  the  moonlight,  the  sun¬ 
light,  the  light  of  fire,  and  lamp,  and  candle ;  and  in 
the  deepest  gloom.  Always  the  same !  In  company, 
in  solitude,  on  land,  on  shipboard ;  sometimes  leav¬ 
ing  me  alone  for  months,  and  sometimes  always 
with  me.  I  have  seen  him,  at  sea,  come  gliding  in 
the  dead  of  night  along  the  bright  reflection  of  the 
moon  in  the  calm  water;  and  I  have  seen  him,  on 
quays  and  market-places,  Avith  his  hand  uplifted, 


200 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


towering,  the  centre  of  a  bnsy  crowd,  unconscious 
of  the  terrible  form  that  had  its  silent  stand  among 
them.  Fancy !  Are  you  real  ?  Am  I  ?  Are  these 
iron  fetters,  riveted  on  me  by  the  smith’s  hammer,  or 
are  they  fancies  I  can  shatter  at  a  blow  ?” 

The  blind  man  listened  in  silence. 

“  Fancy !  Do  I  fancy  that  I  killed  him  ?  Do  I 
fancy  that  as  I  left  the  chamber  where  he  lay,  I  saw 
the  face  of  a  man  peeping  from  a  dark  door,  who 
plainly  showed  me  by  his  fearful  looks  that  he  sus¬ 
pected  what  I  had  done  ?  Do  I  remember  that  I 
spoke  fairly  to  him — that  I  drew  nearer — nearer  yet 
— with  the  hot  knife  in  my  sleeve  ?  Do  I  fancy  how 
he  died?  Did  he  stagger  back  into  the  angle  of  the 
wall  into  which  I  had  hemmed  him,  and,  bleeding 
inwardly,  stand,  not  fall,  a  corpse  before  me  ?  Did 
I  see  him,  for  an  instant,  as  I  see  you  now,  erect  and 
on  his  feet — but  dead?” 

The  bliud  man,  who  knew  that  he  had  risen,  mo¬ 
tioned  him  to  sit  down  again  upon  his  bedstead ;  but 
he  took  no  notice  of  the  gesture. 

“  It  was  then  I  thought,  for  the  first  time,  of  fas¬ 
tening  the  murder  upon  him.  It  was  then  I  dressed 
him  in  my  clothes,  and  dragged  him  down  the  back 
stairs  to  the  piece  of  water.  Do  I  remember  listen¬ 
ing  to  the  bubbles  that  came  rising  up  when  I  had 
rolled  him  in?  Do  I  remember  wiping  the  water 
from  my  face,  and  because  the  body  splashed  it 
there,  in  its  descent,  feeling  as  if  it  must  be  blood  ? 

“  Did  I  go  home  when  I  had  done  ?  And  oh,  my 
God!  how  long  it  took  to  do!  Did  I  stand  before 
my  wife,  and  tell  her  ?  Did  I  see  her  fait  upon  the 
ground ;  and,  when  I  stooped  to  raise  her,  did  she 
thrust  me  back  with  a  force  that  cast  me  off  as  if  I 
had  been  a  child,  staining  the  hand  with  which  she 
clasped  my  wrist  ?  Is  that  fancy  ? 

“Did  she  go  down  upon  her  knees,  and  call  on 
Heaven  to  witness  that  she  and  her  unborn  child 
renounced  me  from  that  hour ;  and  did  she,  in  words 
so  solemn  that  they  turned  me  cold — me,  fresh  from 
the  horrors  my  own  hands  had  made — warn  me  to 
fly  while  there  was  time ;  for  though  she  would  be 
silent,  being  my  wretched  wife,  she  would  not  shel¬ 
ter  me  ?  Did  I  go  forth  that  night,  abjured  of  God 
and  man,  and  anchored  deep  in  hell,  to  wander  at 
my  cable’s  length  about  the  earth,  and  surely  be 
drawn  down  at  last  ?” 

“  Why  did  you  return?”  said  the  blind  man. 

“Why  is  blood  red?  I  could  no  more  help  it, 
than  I  could  live  without  breath.  I  struggled 
against  the  impulse,  but  I  was  drawn  back,  through 
every  difficult  and  adverse  circumstance,  as  by  a 
mighty  engine.  Nothing  could  stop  me.  The  day 
and  hour  were  none  of  my  choice.  Sleeping  and 
waking,  I  had  been  among  the  old  haunts  for  years 
—  had  visited  my  own  grave.  Why  did  I  come 
back  ?  Because  this  jail  was  gaping  for  me,  and  he 
stood  beckoning  at  the  door.” 

“  You  were  not  known  ?”  said  the  blind  man. 

“I  was  a  man  who  had  been  twenty -two  years 
dead.  No.  I  was  not  known.” 

“  You  should  have  kept  your  secret  better.” 

uMy  secret?  Mine?  It  was  a  secret  any  breath 
of  air  could  whisper  at  its  will.  The  stars  had  it  in 
their  twinkling,  the  water  in  its  flowing,  the  leaves 
in  their  rustling,  the  seasons  in  their  return.  It 


lurked  in  strangers’  faces,  and  their  voices.  Every 
thing  had  lips  on  which  it  always  trembled.  My 
secret !” 

“  It  was  revealed  by  your  own  act  at  any  rate,” 
said  the  blind  man. 

“  The  act  was  not  mine.  I  did  it,  but  it  was  not 
mine.  I  was  forced  at  times-  to  wander  round,  and 
round,  and  round  that  spot.  If  you  had  chained  me 
up  when  the  fit  was  on  me,  I  should  have  broken 
away,  and  gone  there.  As  truly  as  the  loadstone 
draws  iron  toward  it,  so  he,  lying  at  the  bottom  of 
his  grave,  could  draw  me  near  him  when  he  would. 
Was  that  fancy?  Did  I  like  to  go  there,  or  did  I 
strive  and  wrestle  with  the  power  that  forced  me  ?” 

The  bliud  man  shrugged  his  shoulders,  and  smiled 
incredulously.  The  prisoner  again  resumed  his  old 
attitude,  and  for  a  long  time  both  were  mute. 

“  I  suppose  then,”  said  his  visitor,  at  length  break¬ 
ing  silence,  “  that  you  are  penitent  and  resigned ; 
that  you  desire  to  make  peace  with  every  body  (in 
particular,  with  your  wife  who  has  brought  you  to 
this) ;  and  that  you  ask  no  greater  favor  than  to  be 
carried  to  Tyburn  as  soon  as  possible  ?  That  being 
the  case,  I  had  better  take  my  leave.  I  am  not 
good  enough  to  be  company  for  you.” 

“  Have  I  not  told  you,”  said  the  other  fiercely, 
“  that  I  have  striven  and  wrestled  with  the  power 
that  brought  me  here  ?  Has  my  whole  life,  for 
eight -and -twenty  years,  been  one  perpetual  strug¬ 
gle  and  resistance,  and  do  you  think  I  want  to  lie 
down  and  die  ?  Do  all  men  shrink  from  death — I 
most  of  all !” 

“  That’s  better  said.  That’s  better  spoken,  Rudge 
— but  I’ll  not  call  you  that  again — than  any  thing 
you  have  said  yet,”  returned  the  blind  man,  speak¬ 
ing  more  familiarly,  and  laying  his  hands  upon  his 
arm.  “Lookye,  I  never  killed  a  man  myself,  for  I 
have  never  been  placed  in  a  position  that  made  it 
worth  my  while.  Further,  I  am  not  an  advocate 
for  killing  men,  and  I  don’t  think  I  should  recom¬ 
mend  it  or  like  it — for  it’s  very  hazardous — under 
any  circumstances.  But  as  you  had  the  misfortune 
to  get  into  this  trouble  before  I  made  your  acquaint¬ 
ance,  and  as  you  have  been  my  companion,  and  have 
been  of  use  to  me  for  a  long  time  now,  I  overlook 
that  part  of  the  matter,  and  am  only  anxious  that 
you  shouldn’t  die  unnecessarily.  Now,  I  do  not  con¬ 
sider  that,  at  present,  it  is  at  all  necessary.” 

“What  else  is  left  me?”  returned  the  prisoner. 
“To  eat  my  way  through  these  walls  with  my 
teeth  ?” 

“  Something  easier  than  that,”  returned  his  friend. 
“Promise  me  that  you  will  talk  no  more  of  these 
fancies  of  yours — idle,  foolish  things,  quite  beneath 
a  man — and  I’ll  tell  you  what  I  mean.” 

“  Tell  me,”  said  the  other. 

“Your  worthy  lady  with  the  tender  conscience; 
your  scrupulous,  virtuous,  punctilious,  but  not  blind¬ 
ly  affectionate  wife — ” 

“What  of  her?” 

“  Is  now  in  London.” 

“A  curse  upon  her,  be  she  where  she  may!” 

“That’s  natural  enough.  If  she  had  taken  her 
annuity  as  usual,  you  would  not  have  been  here, 
and  we  should  have  been  better  off.  But  that’s 
apart  from  the  business.  She’s  in  London.  Scared, 


A  HOPE  OF  ESCAPE. 


201 


as  I  suppose,  and  have  no  doubt,  by  my  representa¬ 
tion  when  I  waited  upon  her,  that  you  were  close  at 
hand  (which  I,  of  course,  urged  only  as  an  induce¬ 
ment  to  compliance,  knowing  that  she  was  not  pin¬ 
ing  to  see  you),  she  left  that  place,  and  traveled  up 
to  London.” 

“  How  do  you  know  ?” 

“  From  my  friend  the  noble  captain — the  illustri¬ 
ous  general — the  bladder,  Mr.  Tappertit.  I  learned 
from  him  the  last  time  I  saw  him,  which  was  yester¬ 
day,  that  your  son  who  is  called  Barnaby — not  af¬ 
ter  his  father  I  suppose — ” 

“  Death !  does  that  matter  now  ?” 

“ — You  are  impatient,”  said  the  blind  man,  calm¬ 
ly  ;  “  it’s  a  good  sign,  and  looks  like  life — that  your 
son  Barnaby  had  been  lured  away  from  her  by  one 
of  his  companions  who  knew  him  of  old,  at  Chig- 
well ;  and  that  he  is  now  among  the  rioters.” 

“  And  what  is  that  to  me  ?  If  father  and  son  be 
hanged  together,  wliat  comfort  shall  I  find  in  that?” 

“  Stay — stay,  my  friend,”  returned  the  blind  man, 
with  a  cunning  look,  “you  travel  fast  to  journeys’ 
ends.  Suppose  I  track  my  lady  out,  and  say  thus 
much  :  ‘  You  want  youi^son,  ma’am — good.  I,  know¬ 
ing  those  who  tempt  him  to  remain  among  them, 
can  restore  him  to  you,  ma’am  —  good.  You  must 
pay  a  price,  ma’am,  for  his  restoration — good  again. 
The  price  is  small,  and  easy  to  be  paid — dear  ma’am, 
that’s  best  of  all.” 

“What  mockery  is  this ?” 

“  Very  likely,  she  may  reply  in  those  words.  ‘No 
mockery  at  all,’  I  answer.  ‘  Madam,  a  person  said  to 
be  your  husband  (identity  is  difficult  of  proof  after 
the  lapse  of  many  years)  is  in  prison,  his  life  in  peril 
—  the  charge  against  him,  murder.  Now,  ma’am, 
your  husband  has  been  dead  a  long,  long  time.  The 
gentleman  never  can  be  confounded  with  him,  if  you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  say  a  few  words,  on  oath, 
as  to  w  hen  he  died,  and  how ;  and  that  this  person 
(who  I  am  told  resembles  him  in  some  degree)  is  no 
more  he  than  I  am.  Such  testimony  will  set  the 
question  quite  at  rest.  Pledge  yourself  to  me  to 
give  it,  ma’am,  and  I  will  undertake  to  keep  your 
son  (a  fine  lad)  out  of  harm’s  way  until  yon  have 
done  this  trifling  service,  when  he  shall  be  delivered 
up  to  you,  safe  and  sound.  On  the  other  hand,  if 
you  decline  to  do  so,  I  fear  he  will  be  betrayed,  and 
handed  over  to  the  law,  which  will  assuredly  sen¬ 
tence  him  to  suffer  death.  It  is,  in  fact,  a  choice  be¬ 
tween  his  life  and  death.  If  you  refuse,  he  swings. 
If  you  comply,  the  timber  is  not  grown,  nor  the 
hemp  sown,  that  shall  do  him  any  harm.’  ” 

“  There  is  a  gleam  of  hope  in  this  ?”  cried  the  pris¬ 
oner. 

“A  gleam !”  returned  his  friend,  “  a  noon-blaze ;  a 
full  and  glorious  daylight.  Hush !  I  hear  the  tread 
of  distant  feet.  Rely  on  me.” 

“  When  shall  I  hear  more  ?” 

“As  soon  as  I  do.  I  should  hope,  to-morrow. 
They  are  coming  to  say  that  our  time  for  talk  is  over. 
I  hear  the  jingling  of  the  keys.  Not  another  word 
of  this  just  nowr,  or  they  may  overhear  us.” 

As  he  said  these  words,  the  lock  was  turned,  and 
one  of  the  prison  turnkeys  appearing  at  the  door, 
announced  that  it  was  time  for  visitors  to  leave  the 
jail. 


“  So  soon !”  said  Stagg,  meekly.  “  But  it  can’t  be 
helped.  Cheer  up,  friend.  This  mistake  will  soon 
be  set  at  rest,  and  then  you  are  a  man  again !  If 
this  charitable  gentleman  will  lead  a  blind  man 
(who  has  nothing  in  return  but  prayers)  to  the  pris- 
ou-porch,  and  set  him  with  his  face  toward  the  west, 
he  will  do  a  wrorthy  deed.  Thank  you,  good  sir.  I 
thank  you  very  kindly.” 

So  saying,  and  pausing  for  an  instant  at  the  door 
to  turn  his  grinning  face  toward  his  friend,  he  de¬ 
parted. 

When  the  officer  had  seen  him  to  the  porch,  he  re¬ 
turned,  and  again  unlocking  and  unbarring  the  door 
of  the  cell,  set  it  wide  open,  informing  its  inmate 
that  he  was  at  liberty  to  walk  in  the  adjacent  yard, 
if  he  thought  proper,  for  an  hour. 

The  prisoner  answered  with  a  sullen  nod ;  and  be¬ 
ing  left  alone  again,  sat  brooding  over  what  he  had 
heard,  and  pondering  upon  the  hopes  the  recent  con¬ 
versation  had  awakened ;  gazing  abstractedly,  the 
while  he  did  so,  on  the  light  without,  and  watching 
the  shadows  thrown  by  one  wall  on  another,  and  on 
the  stone-paved  ground. 

It  was  a  dull,  square  yard,  made  cold  and  gloomy 
by  high  walls,  and  seeming  to  chill  the  very  sun¬ 
light.  The  stone,  so  bare,  and  rough,  and  obdurate, 
filled  even  him  with  longing  thoughts  of  meadow- 
land  and  trees;  and  with  a  burning  wish  to  be  at 
liberty.  As  he  looked,  he  rose,  and  leaning  against 
the  door-post,  gazed  up  at  the  bright  blue  sky,  smil¬ 
ing  even  on  that  dreary  home  of  crime.  He  seem¬ 
ed,  for  a  moment,  to  remember  lying  on  his  back  in 
some  sweet-scented  place,  and  gazing  at  it  through 
moving  branches,  long  ago. 

His  attention  was  suddenly  attracted  by  a  clank¬ 
ing  sound — he  knew  what  it  was,  for  he  had  startled 
himself  by  making  the  same  noise  in  walking  to  the 
door.  Presently  a  voice  began  to  sing,  and  he  saw 
the  shadow  of  a  figure  on  the  pavement.  It  stop¬ 
ped —  was  silent  all  at  once,  as  though  the  person 
for  a  moment  had  forgotten  where  he  was,  but  soon 
remembered — and  so,  with  the  same  clanking  noise, 
the  shadow  disappeared. 

He  walked  out  into  the  court  and  paced  it  to  and 
fro ;  startling  the  echoes,  as  he  went,  with  the  harsh 
jangling  of  his  fetters.  There  was  a  door  near  his, 
which,  like  his,  stood  ajar. 

He  had  not  taken  half  a  dozen  turns  up  and  down 
the  yard,  when,  standing  still  to  observe  this  door, 
he  heard  the  clanking  sound  again.  A  face  looked 
out  of  the  grated  window — he  saw  it  very  dindy, 
for  the  cell  was  dark  and  the  bars  were  heavy — and 
directly  afterward,  a  man  appeared,  and  came  to¬ 
ward  him. 

For  the  sense  of  loneliness  he  had,  he  might  have 
been  in  jail  a  year.  Made  eager  by  the  hope  of  com¬ 
panionship,  he  quickened  his  pace,  and  hastened  to 
meet  the  man  half  way — 

What  was  this !  His  son  ! 

They  stood  face  to  face,  staring  at  each  other. 
He  shrinking  and  cowed,  despite  himself ;  Barnaby 
struggling  with  his  imperfect  memory,  and  wonder¬ 
ing  where  he  had  seen  that  face  before.  He  was  not 
uncertain  long,  for  suddenly  he  laid  hands  upon  him, 
and  striving  to  bear  him  to  the  ground,  cried : 

“Ah !  I  know !  You  are  the  robber !” 


202 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


He  said  nothing  in  reply  at  first,  but  held  down 
his  head,  and  struggled  with  him  silently.  Finding 
the  younger  man  too  strong  for  him,  he  raised  his 
face,  looked  close  into  his  eyes,  and  said, 

11 1  am  your  father.” 

God  knows  what  magic  the  name  had  for  his  ears ; 
but  Barnaby  released  his  hold,  fell  hack,  and  looked 
at  him  aghast.-  Suddenly  he  sprang  toward  him, 
put  his  arms  about  his  neck,  and  pressed  his  head 
against  his  cheek. 

Yes,  yes,  he  was ;  he  was  sure  he  was.  But  where 
had  he  been  so  long,  and  why  had  he  left  his  mother 
by  herself,  or  worse  than  by  herself,  with  her  poor 
foolish  boy  ?  And  had  she  really  been  as  happy  as 
they  said.  And  where  was  she?  Was  she  near 
*  there  ?  She  was  not  happy  now,  and  he  in  jail  ? 
Ah,  no. 

Not  a  word  was  said  in  answer;  but  Grip  croak¬ 
ed  loudly,  and  hopped  about  them,  round  tflnd  round, 
as  if  inclosing  them  iu  a  magic  circle,  and  invoking 
all  the  powers  of  mischief. 

- <«— — 

CHAPTER  LXIII. 

DURING  the  whole  of  this  day,  every  regiment  in 
or  near  the  metropolis  was  on  duty  iu  one  or 
other  part  of  the  town ;  and  the  regulars  aud  mili¬ 
tia,  in  obedience  to  the  orders  which  were  sent  to 
every  barrack  and  station  within  twenty-four  hours’ 
journey,  began  to  pour  in  by  all  the  roads.  But 
the  disturbance  had  attained  to  such  a  formidable 
height,  and  the  rioters  had  grown,  with  impunity, 
to  be  so  audacious,  that  the  sight  of  this  great  force, 
continually  augmented  by  new  arrivals,  instead  of 
operating  as  a  check,  stimulated  them  to  outrages 
of  greater  hardihood  than  any  they  had  yet  commit¬ 
ted  ;  and  helped  to  kindle  a  flame  in  London,  the 
like  of  which  had  never  been  beheld,  eveu  iu  its  an¬ 
cient  and  rebellious  times. 

All  yesterday,  aud  on  this  day  likewise,  the  com¬ 
mander-in-chief  endeavored  to  arouse  the  magis- 
trates  to  a  sense  of  their  duty,  and  in  particular  the 
Lord  Mayor,  who  was  the  faintest-hearted  aud  most 
timid  of  them  all.  With  this  object,  large  bodies 
of  the  soldiery  Avere  several  times  dispatched  to  the 
Mansion  House  to  await  his  orders ;  but  as  he  could, 
by  no  threats  or  persuasions,  be  induced  to  give  any, 
and  as  the  men  remained  iu  the  open  street,  fruit¬ 
lessly  for  any  good  purpose,  and  thrivingly  for  a 
very  bad  one ;  these  laudable  attempts  did  harm 
rather  than  good.  For  the  crowd,  becoming  speedi¬ 
ly  acquainted  with  the  Lord  Mayor’s  temper,  did  not 
fail  to  take  advantage  of  it  by  boasting  that  even 
the  civil  authorities  were  opposed  to  the  Papists, 
and  could  not  find  in  their  hearts  to  molest  those 
who  were  guilty  of  no  other  offense.  These1  vauuts 
they  took  care  to  make  within  the  hearing  of  the 
soldiers ;  aud  they,  being  naturally  loath  to  quarrel 
with  the  people,  received  their  advances  kindly 
enough ;  answering,  when  they  were  asked  if  they 
desired  to  fire  upon  their  countrymen,  “  No,  they 
would  be  damned  if  they  did aud  showing  much 
honest  simplicity  and  good  nature.  The  feeling  that 
the  military  were  No  Popery  men,  and  Avere  ripe  for 


disobeying  orders  and  joiniug  the  mob,  soon  became 
very  prevalent  iu  consequence.  Rumors  of  their 
disaffection,  and  of  their  leaning  toward  the  popu¬ 
lar  cause,  spread  from  mouth  to  mouth  with  astou- 
ishing  rapidity;  aud  whenever  they  were  drawn  up 
idly  in  the  streets  or  squares,  there  was  sure  to  be  a 
crowd  about  them,  cheering  and  shaking  hands,  and 
treating  them  with  a  great  show  of  confidence  aud 
affection. 

By  this  time,  the  crowd  was  everywhere ;  all  con¬ 
cealment  and  disguise  were  laid  aside,  aud  they  per¬ 
vaded  the  whole  town.  If  any  man  among  them 
wanted  money,  he  had  but  to  knock  at  the  door  of  a 
dwelling-house,  or  walk  into  a  shop,  and  demand  it 
iu  the  rioters’  name ;  and  his  demand  was  instantly 
complied  with.  The  peaceable  citizens  being  afraid 
to  lay  hands  upon  them,  singly  and  alone,  it  may  be 
easily  supposed  that  when  gathered  together  in  bod¬ 
ies,  they  were  perfectly  secure  from  interruption. 
They  assembled  in  the  streets,  traversed  them  at 
their  will  and  pleasure,  and  publicly  concerted  their 
plans.  Business  was  quite  suspended;  the  greater 
part  of  the  shops  were  closed;  most  of  the  houses 
displayed  a  blue  flag  in  token  of  their  adherence  to 
the  popular  side ;  and  even  the  Jews  in  Hounds- 
ditcli,  Whitechapel,  and  those  quarters,  wrote  upon 
their  doors  or  window- shutters  “This  House  is  a 
True  Protestant.”  The  crowd  was  the  law,  and 
never  was  the  law  held  in  greater  dread,  or  more 
implicitly  obeyed. 

It  was  about  six  o’clook  in. the  evening,  when  a 
vast  mob  poured  into  Lincoln’s  Inn  Fields  by  every 
avenue,  and  divided — evidently  in  pursuance  of  a 
previous  design — into  several  parties.  It  must  not 
be  understood  that  this  arrangement  was  known  to 
the  Avhole  croAvd,  but  that  it  was  the  work  of  a  few 
leaders ;  who,  mingling  with  the  men  as  they  came 
upon  the  ground,  and  calliug  to  them  to  fall  into 
this  or  that  party,  effected  it  as  rapidly  as  if  it  had 
been  determined  on  by  a  council  of  the  whole  num¬ 
ber,  and  every  man  had* known  his  place. 

It  was  perfectly  notorious  to  the  assemblage  that 
the  largest  body,  which  comprehended  about  two- 
thirds  of  the  Avhole,  Avas  designed  for  the  attack  on 
Newgate.  It  comprehended  all  the  rioters  who  had 
been  conspicuous  in  any  of  their  former  proceedings ; 
all  those  Avhom  they  recommended  as  daring  hands 
and  fit  for  the  work ;  all  those  whose  companions 
had  been  takeu  in  the  riots ;  and  a  great  number  of 
people  who  were  relatives  or  friends  of  felons  in  the 
jail.  This  last  class  included,  not  only  the  most  des¬ 
perate  and  utterly  abandoned  villains  in  London, 
but  some  who  Avere  comparatively  innocent.  There 
Avas  more  than  one  woman  there,  disguised  in  man’s 
attire,  aud  bent  upon  the  rescue  of  a  child  or  brother. 
There  Avere  the  two  sons  of  a  man  who  lay  under 
sentence  of  death,  and  who  was  to  be  executed  along 
Avith  three  others,  on  the  next  day  but  one.  There 
Avas  a  great  party  of  boys  whose  felloAV-pickpockets 
were  in  the  prison ;  and  at  the  skirts  of  all,  a  score 
of  miserable  women,  outcasts  from  the  world,  seek¬ 
ing  to  release  some  other  fallen  creature  as  miserable 
as  themselves,  or  moAred  by  a  general  sympathy  per¬ 
haps — God  knows — with  all  who  Avere  without  hope, 
and  Avretched. 

Old  SAvords,  and  pistols  without  ball  or  poAvder; 


A  VISIT  TO  THE  LOCK-SMITH. 


203 


sledge-hammers,  knives,  axes,  saws,  and  weapons 
pillaged  from  the  butchers’  shops;  a  forest  of  iron 
bars  and  wooden  clubs ;  long  ladders  for  scaling  the 
walls,  each  carried  on  the  shoulders  of  a  dozen  men  ; 
lighted  torches;  tow  smeared  with  pitch,  and  tar, 
and  brimstone ;  staves  roughly  plucked  from  fence 
aud  paling;  and  even  crutches  taken  from  crippled 
beggars  in  the  streets ;  composed  their  arms.  When 
all  was  ready,  Hugh  and  Dennis,  with  Simon  Tap- 
pertit  between  them,  led  the  way.  Roaring  and 
chafing  like  an  angry  sea,  the  crowd  xnressed  after 
them. 

Instead  of  going  straight  down  Holborn  to  the 
jail,  as  all  expected,  their  leaders  took  the  way  to 
Clerkeuwell,  and  pouring  down  a  quiet  street,  halt¬ 
ed  before  a  lock-smith’s  house — the  Golden  Key. 

“  Beat  at  the  door,”  cried  Hugh  to  the  men  about 
him.  “  We  want  one  of  his  craft  to-night.  Beat  it 
in,  if  no  one  answers.” 

The  shop  was  shut.  Both  door  and  shutters  were 
of  a  strong  and  sturdy  kind,  aud  they  knocked  with¬ 
out  effect.  But  the  impatient  crowd  raising  a  cry 
of  “  Set  fire  to  the  house !”  and  torches  being  passed 
to  the  front,  an  upper  window  was  thrown  open,  and 
the  stout  old  lock-smith  stood  before  them. 

“  What  now,  you  villains !”  he  demanded.  “  Where 
is  my  daughter  ?” 

“  Ask  no  questions  of  us,  old  man,”  retorted  Hugh, 
waving  his  comrades  to  be  silent,  “  but  come  down, 
and  bring  the  tools  of  your  trade.  We  want  you.” 

“Want  me!”  cried  the  lock-smith,  glancing  at  the 
regimental  dress  he  wore :  “  ay,  and  if  some  that  I 
could  name  possessed  the  hearts  of  mice,  ye  should 
have  had  me  long  ago.  Mark  me,  my  lad —and  you 
about  him  do  the  same.  There  are  a  score  among 
ye  whom  I  see  now  and  know,  who  are  dead  men 
from  this  hour.  Begone!  and  rob  an  undertaker’s 
while  you  can!  You’ll  want  some  coffins  before 
long.” 

“  Will  you  come  down  ?”  cried  Hugh. 

“  Will  you  give  me  my  daughter,  ruffian  ?”  cried 
the  lock-smith. 

“  I  know  nothing  of  her,”  Hugh  rejoined.  “  Burn 
the  door !” 

“  Stop !”  cried  the  lock-smith,  in  a  voice  that  made 
them  falter — presenting,  as  he  spoke,  a  gun.  “  Let 
an  old  man  do  that.  You  can  spare  him  better.” 

The  youug  fellow  who  held  the  light,  and  who 
was  stooping  down  before  the  door,  rose  hastily  at 
these  words,  and  fell  back.  The  lock-smith  ran  his 
eye  along  the  upturned  faces,  and  kept  the  weapon 
leveled  at  the  threshold  of  his  house.  It  had  no 
other  rest  than  his  shoulder,  but  was  as  steady  as 
the  house  itself. 

“Let  the  man  who  does  it,  take  heed  to  his 
prayers,”  he  said  firmly ;  “  I  warn  him.” 

Snatching  a  torch  from  one  who  stood  near  him, 
Hugh  was  stepping  forward  with  an  oath,  when  he 
was  arrested  by  a  shrill  and  piercing  shriek,  and, 
looking  upward,  saw  a  fluttering  garment  on  the 
house-top. 

There  was  another  shriek,  and  another,  and  then 
a  shrill  voice  cried,  “  Is  Simmun  below  ?”  At  the 
same  moment  a  lean  neck  was  stretched  over  the 
parapet,  and  Miss  Miggs,  indistinctly  seen  in  the 
gathering  gloom  of  evening,  screeched  in  a  frenzied 


manner,  “Oh!  dear  gentlemen,  let  me  hear  Sim- 
mun’s  answer  from  his  own  lips.  Speak  to  me, 
Simmun.  Speak  to  me !” 

Mr.  Tappertit,  who  was  not  at  all  flattered  by  this 
compliment,  looked  up,  and  bidding  her  hold  her 
peace,  ordered  her  to  come  down  and  open  the  door, 
for  they  wanted  her  master,  and  would  take  no  de¬ 
nial. 

“  Oh  good  gentlemen !”  cried  Miss  Miggs.  “  Oh 
my  own  precious,  precious  Simmun — ” 

“Hold  your  nonsense,  will  you!”  retorted  Mr. 
Tappertit ;  “  and  come  down  and  open  the  door.  G. 
Varden,  drop  that  gun,  or  it  will  be  worse  for  you.” 

“Don’t  mind  his  gun,”  screamed  Miggs.  “Sim¬ 
mun  and  gentlemen,  I  poured  a  mug  of  table-beer 
right  down  the  barrel.” 

The  crowd  gave  a  loud  shout,  which  was  followed 
by  a  roar  of  laughter. 

“  It  wouldn’t  go  off,  not  if  you  was  to  load  it  up 
to  the  muzzle,”  screamed  Miggs.  “  Simmun  and 
gentlemen,  I’m  locked  up  in  the  front  attic,  through 
the  little  door  on  the  right  hand  when  you  think 
you’ve  got  to  the  very  top  of  the  stairs  —  and  up 
the  flight  of  corner  steps,  being  careful  not  to  knock 
your  heads  against  the  rafters,  and  not  to  tread  on 
one  side  in  case  you  should  fall  into  the  two -pair 
bedroom  through  the  lath  and  plasture,  which  do 
not  bear,  but  the  contrairy.  Simmun  and  gentle¬ 
men,  I’ve  been  locked  up  here  for  safety,  but  my 
endeavors  has  always  been,  and  always  will  be,  to 
be  on  the  right  side — the  blessed  side — and  to  pre- 
nounce  the  Pope  of  Babylon,  and  all  her  inward  and 
her  outward  workings,  which  is  Pagin.  My  senti¬ 
ments  is  of  little  consequences,  I  know,”  cried  Miggs, 
with  additional  shrillness,  “for  my  positions  is  but 
a  servant,  and  as  sich,  of  humilities,  still  I  gives  ex¬ 
pressions  to  my  feelings,  and  places  my  reliances  on 
them  which  entertains  my  own  opinions!” 

Without  taking  much  notice  of  these  outpourings 
of  Miss  Miggs  after  she  had  made  her  first  announce¬ 
ment  in  relation  to  the  gun,  the  crowd  raised  a  lad¬ 
der  against  the  window  where  the  lock-smith  stood, 
and  notwithstanding  that  he  closed,  and  fastened, 
and  defended  it  manfully,  soon  forced  an  entrance 
by  shivering  the  glass  and  breaking  in  the  frames. 
After  dealing  a  few  stout  blows  about  him,  he  found 
himself  defenseless,  in  the  midst  of  a  furious  crowd, 
which  overflowed  the  room  and  softened  off  in  a 
confused  heap  of  faces  at  the  door  and  window. 

They  were  very  wrathful  with  him  (for  he  had 
wounded  two  men),  and  even  called  out  to  those  in 
front,  to  bring  him  forth  and  hang  him  on  a  lamp- 
post.  But  Gabriel  was  quite  undaunted,  and  looked 
from  Hugh  and  Dennis,  who  held  him  by  either  arm, 
to  Simon  Tappertit,  who  confronted  him. 

“You  have  robbed  me  of  my  daughter,”  said  the 
lock-smith,  “  wdio  is  far  dearer  to  me  than  my  life  ; 
and  you  may  take  my  life,  if  you  will.  I  bless  God 
that  I  have  been  enabled  to  keep  my  wife  free  of 
this  scene ;  and  that  He  has  made  me  a  man  who 
will  not  ask  mercy  at  such  hands  as  yours.” 

“And  a  wery  game  old  gentleman  you  are,”  said 
Mr.  Dennis,  approvingly;  “aud  you  express  your¬ 
self  like  a  man.  What’s  the  odds,  brother,  whether 
it’s  a  lamp-post  to-night,  or  a  feather-bed  ten  year 
to  come,  eh  ?” 


204 


BABNABY  BUDGE . 


The  lock-smith  glanced  at  him  disdainfully,  hut 
returned  no  other  answer. 

“  For  my  part,”  said  the  hangman,  who  particu¬ 
larly  favored  the  lamp -post  suggestion,  “I  honor 
your  principles.  They’re  mine  exactly.  In  such 
sentiments  as  them,”  and  here  he  emphasized  his 
discourse  with  an  oath,  “  I’m  ready  to  meet  you  or 
any  man  half-way.  Have  you  got  a  hit  of  cord  any¬ 


want  any  service  from  me,  you  may  spare  yourselves 
the  pains  of  telling  me  what  it  is.  I  tell  you,  be¬ 
forehand,  I’ll  do  nothing  for  you.” 

Mr.  Dennis  was  so  affected  by  this  constancy  on 
the  part  of  the  staunch  old  man,  that  he  protested 
— almost  with  tears  in  his  eyes — that  to  balk  his 
inclinations  would  be  an  act  of  cruelty  and  hard 
dealing  to  which  he,  for  one,  never  could  reconcile 


THE  OEOWD  GAVE  A  LOOT)  SHOUT,  WHICH  WAS  FOLLOWED  BY  A  BOAR  OF  LAUGHTER. 


wheres  handy  ?  Don’t  put  yourself  out  of  the  way, 
if  you  haven’t.  A  handkeclier  will  do.” 

“  Don’t  be  a  fool,  master,”  whispered  Hugh,  seiz¬ 
ing  Yardeu  roughly  by  the  shoulder;  “but  do  as 
you’re  bid.  You’ll  soon  hear  what  you’re  wanted 
for.  Do  it !” 

“  I’ll  do  nothing  at  your  request,  or  that  of  any 
scoundrel  here,”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “  If  you 


his  conscience.  The  gentleman,  he  said,  had  avowed 
in  so  many  words  that  he  was  ready  for  working  off; 
such  being  the  case,  he  considered  it  their  duty,  as 
a  civilized  and  enlightened  crowd,  to  work  him  off. 
It  was  not  often,  ho  observed,  that  they  had  it  in 
their  power  to  accommodate  themselves  to  the  wish¬ 
es  of  those  from  whom  they  had  the  misfortune  to 
differ.  Having  now  found  an  individual  who  ex- 


MIGGS’S  DEVOTION. 


205 


pressed  a  desire  which  they  could  reasonably  in¬ 
dulge  (and  for  himself  he  was  free  to  confess  that  in 
his  opinion  that  desire  did  honor  to  his  feelings),  he 
hoped  they  would  decide  to  accede  to  his  proposi¬ 
tion  before  going  any  further.  It  was  an  experi¬ 
ment  which,  skillfully  and  dexterously  performed, 
would  be  over  in  five  minutes,  with  great  comfort 
and  satisfaction  to  all  parties;  and  though  it  did 
not  become  him  (Mr.  Dennis)  to  speak  well  of  him¬ 
self,  he  trusted  he  might  be  allowed  to  say  that  he 
had  practical  knowledge  of  the  subject,  and,  being 
naturally  of  an  obliging  and  friendly  disposition, 
would  work  the  gentleman  off  with  a  deal  of  pleas¬ 
ure. 

These  remarks,  which  were  addressed  in  the  midst 
of  a  frightful  din  and  turmoil  to  those  immediately 
about  him,  were  received  with  great  favor ;  not  so 
much,  perhaps,  because  of  the  hangman’s  eloquence, 
as  on  account  of  the  lock -smith’s  obstinacy.  Ga¬ 
briel  was  in  imminent  peril,  and  he  knew  it;  but  he 
preserved  a  steady  silence ;  and  would  have  done  so, 
if  they  had  been  debating  whether  they  should  roast 
him  at  a  slow  fire. 

As  the  hangman  spoke,  there  was  some  stir  and 
confusion  on  the  ladder;  and  directly  he  was  silent 
— so  immediately  upon  his  holding  his  peace,  that 
the  crowd  below  had  no  time  to  learn  what  he  had 
been  saying,  or  to  shout  in  response— some  one  at 
the  window  cried : 

“  He  has  a  gray  head.  He  is  an  old  man.  Don’t 
hurt  him !” 

The  lock-smith  turned,  with  a  start,  toward  the 
place  from  which  the  words  had  come,  and  looked 
hurriedly  at  the  people  who  were  hanging  on  the 
ladder  and  clinging  to  each  other. 

“  Pay  no  respect  to  my  gray  hair,  young  man,”  he 
said,  answering  the  voice  and  not  any  one  he  saw. 
“  I  don’t  ask  it.  My  heart  is  green  enough  to  scorn 
and  despise  every  man  among  you,  band  of  robbers 
that  you  are !” 

This  incautious  speech  by  no  means  tended  to  ap¬ 
pease  the  ferocity  of  the  crowd.  They  cried  again 
to  have  him  brought  out;  and  it  would  have  gone 
hard  with  the  honest  lock-smith,  but  that  Hugh  re¬ 
minded  them,  in  answer,  that  they  wanted  his  serv¬ 
ices,  and  must  have  them. 

“  So,  tell  him  what  we  want,”  he  said  to  Simon 
Tappertit,  “and  quickly.  And  open  your  ears,  mas¬ 
ter,  if  you  would  ever  use  them  after  to-night.” 

Gabriel  folded  his  arms,  which  were  now  at  liber¬ 
ty,  and  eyed  his  old  ’prentice  in  silence. 

“Lookye,  Yarden,”  said  Sim,  “we’re  bound  for 
Newgate.” 

“  I  know  you  are,”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “  You 
never  said  a  truer  word  than  that.” 

“  To  burn  it  down,  I  mean,”  said  Simon,  “  and  force 
the  gates,  and  set  the  prisoners  at  liberty.  You  help¬ 
ed  to  make  the  lock  of  the  great  door.” 

“I  did,”  said  the  lock-smith.  “You  owe  me  no 
thanks  for  that — as  you’ll  find  before  long.” 

“Maybe,”  returned  his  journeyman;  “but  you 
must  show  us  how  to  force  it.” 

“Must  I!” 

“  Yes ;  for  you  know,  and  I  don’t.  You  must  come 
along  with  us,  and  pick  it  with  your  own  hands.” 

“When  I  do,”  said  the  lock -smith  quietly,  “my 


hands  shall  drop  off  at  the  wrists,  and  you  shall 
wear  them,  Simon  Tappertit,  on  your  shoulders  for 
epaulets.” 

“  We’ll  see  that,”  cried  Hugh,  interposing  as  the 
indignation  of  the  crowd  again  burst  forth.  “  You 
fill  a  basket  with  the  tools  he’ll  want,  while  I  bring' 
him  down  stairs.  Open  the  doors  below,  some  of 
you.  And  light  the  great  captain,  others !  Is  there 
no  business  afoot,  my  lads,  that  you  can  do  nothing 
but  stand  and  grumble  ?” 

They  looked  at  one  another,  and  quickly  dispers¬ 
ing,  swarmed  over  the  house,  plundering  and  break¬ 
ing,  according  to  their  custom,  and  carrying  off  such 
articles  of  value  as  happened  to  please  their  fancy. 
They  had  no  great  length  of  time  for  these  proceed¬ 
ings,  for  the  basket  of  tools  was  soon  prepared  and 
slung  over  a  man’s  shoulders.  The  preparations  be¬ 
ing  now  completed,  and  every  thing  ready  for  the 
attack,  those  who  were  pillagiug  and  destroying  in 
the  other  rooms  were  called  down  to  the  workshop. 
They  were  about  to  issue  forth,  when  the  man  who 
had  been  last  up  stairs,  stepped  forward,  and  asked 
if  the  young  woman  in  the  garret  (who  was  making 
a  terrible  noise,  he  said,  and  kept  on  screaming  with¬ 
out  the  least  cessation)  was  to  be  released  ? 

For  his  own  part,  Simon  Tappertit  would  certain¬ 
ly  have  replied  in  the  negative,  but  the  mass  of  his 
companions,  mindful  of  the  good  service  she  had  done 
in  the  matter  of  the  gun,  being  of  a  different  opinion, 
he  had  nothing  for  it  but  to  answer,  Yes.  The  man, 
accordingly  went  back  again  to  the  rescue,  and  pres¬ 
ently  returned  with  Miss  Miggs,  limp  and  doubled 
up,  and  very  damp  from  much  weeping. 

As  the  young  lady  had  given  no  tokens  of  con¬ 
sciousness  on  their  way  down  stairs,  the  bearer  re¬ 
ported  her  either  dead  or  dying ;  and  being  at  some 
loss  what  to  do  with  her,  was  looking  round  for  a 
convenient  bench  or  heap  of  ashes  on  which  to  place 
her  senseless  form,  when  she  suddenly  came  upon 
her  feet  by  some  mysterious  means,  thrust  back  her 
hair,  stared  wildly  at  Mr.  Tappertit,  cried,  “  My  Sim- 
muns’s  life  is  not  a  wictim !”  and  dropped  into  his 
arms  with  such  promptitude  that  he  staggered  and 
reeled  some  paces  back,  beneath  his  lovely  burden. 

“  Oh  bother !” said  Mr.  Tappertit.  “Here.  Catch 
hold  of  her  somebody.  Lock  her  up  again ;  she 
never  ought  to  have  been  let  out.” 

“My  Simmun!”  cried  Miss  Miggs,  in  tears,  and 
faintly.  “My  forever,  ever  blessed  Simmun!” 

“  Hold  up,  will  you,”  said  Mr.  Tappertit,  in  a  very 
unresponsive  tone,  “  I’ll  let  you  fall  if  you  don’t. 
What  are  you  sliding  your  feet  off  the  ground  for?” 

“My  angel  Simmuns!”  murmured  Miggs  —  “he 
promised — ” 

“  Promised !  Well,  and  I’ll  keep  my  promise,”  an¬ 
swered  Simon,  testily.  “  I  mean  to  provide  for  you, 
don’t  I  ?  Stand  up !” 

“Where  am  I  to  go?  What  is  to  become  of 
me  after  my  actions  of  this  night !”  cried  Miggs. 

“  What  resting-places  now  remains  but  in  the  silent 
tombses !” 

“  I  wish  you  was  in  the  silent  tombses,  I  do,”  cried 
Mr.  Tappertit,  “  and  boxed  up  tight,  in  a  good  strong 
one.  Here,”  he  cried  to  one  of  the  by-standers,  in 
whose  ear  he  whispered  for  a  moment:  “take  her 
off,  will  you  ?  You  understand  where  ?” 


206 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


The  fellow  nodded ;  and  taking  her  in  his  arms, 
notwithstanding  her  broken  protestations,  and  her 
straggles  (which  latter  species  of  opposition,  involv¬ 
ing  scratches,  was  nincli  more  difficult  of  resistance), 
carried  her  away.  They  who  were  in  the  house 
poured  out  into  the  street;  the  lock-smith  was  tak¬ 
en  to  the  head  of  the  crowd,  and  required  to  walk 
between  his  two  conductors;  the  whole  body  was 
put  in  rapid  motion ;  and  without  any  shouting  or 
noise  they  bore  down  straight  on  Newgate,  and  halt¬ 
ed  in  a  dense  mass  before  the  prison  gate. 

- ♦ - 

CHAPTER  LXIY. 

BREAKING  the  silence  they  had  hitherto  pre¬ 
served,  they  raised  a  great  cry  as  soon  as  they 
were  ranged  before  the  jail,  and  demanded  to  speak 
to  the  governor.  This  visit  was  not  wholly  unex¬ 
pected,  for  his  house,  which  fronted  the  street,  was 
strongly  barricaded,  the  wicket -gate  of  the  prison 
was  closed  up,  and  at  no  loop-hole  or  grating  was 
any  person  to  be  seen.  Before  they  had  repeated 
their  summons  mau^  times,  a  man  appeared  upon 
the  roof  of  the  governor’s  house,  and  asked  what  it 
was  they  wanted. 

Some  said  one  thing,  some  another,  and  some  only 
groaned  and  hissed.  It  being  now  nearly  dark,  and 
the  house  high,  many  persons  in  the  throng  were  not 
aware  that  any  one  had  come  to  answer  them,  and 
continued  their  clamor  until  the  intelligence  was 
gradually  diffused  through  the  whole  concourse. 
Ten  minutes  or  more  elapsed  before  any  one  voice 
could  be  heard  with  tolerable  distinctness;  during 
which  interval  the  figure  remained  perched  alone, 
against  the  summer-evening  sky,  looking  down  into 
the  troubled  street. 

“Are  you,”  said  Hugh  at  length,  “Mr.  Akerman, 
the  head  jailer  here?” 

“  Of  course  he  is,  brother,”  whispered  Dennis. 
But  Hugh,  without  minding  him,  took  his  answer 
from  the  man  himself. 

“  Yes,”  he  said.  “  I  am.” 

“You  have  got  some  friends  of  ours  in  your  cus¬ 
tody,  master.” 

“  I  have  a  good  many  people  in  my  custody.’*  He 
glanced  downward,  as  he  spoke,  into  the  jail ;  and 
the  feeling  that  he  could  see  into  the  different 
yards,  and  that  he  overlooked  every  thing  which 
was  hidden  from  their  view  by  the  rugged  walls,  so 
lashed  and  goaded  the  mob,  that  they  howled  like 
wolves. 

“  Deliver  up  our  friends,”  said  Hugh,  “  and  you 
may  keep  the  rest.” 

“  It’s  my  duty  to  keep  them  all.  I  shall  do  my 
duty.” 

“If  you  don’t  throw  the  doors  open,  we  shall 
break  ’em  down,”  said  Hugh ;  “  for  we  will  have  the 
rioters  out.” 

“All  I  can  do,  good  people,”  Akerman  replied,  “  is 
to  exhort  you  to  disperse;  and  to  remind  you  that 
the  consequences  of  any  disturbance  in  this  place, 
will  be  very  severe,  and  bitterly  repented  by  most 
of  you,  when  it  is  too  late.” 

,  He  made  as  though  he  would  retire  when  he  had 


said  these  words,  but  he  was  checked  by  the  voice 
of  the  lock-smith. 

“  Mr.  Akerman,”  cried  Gabriel,  “  Mr.  Akerman.” 

“I  will  hear  no  more  from  any  of  you,”  replied  the 
governor,  turning  toward  the  speaker,  and  waving 
his  hand. 

“  But  I  am  not  one  of  them,”  said  Gabriel.  “  I 
am  an  honest  man,  Mr.  Akerman^  a  respectable 
tradesman  —  Gabriel  Vardeu,  the  lock-smith.  You 
know  me  ?” 

“You  among  the  crowd?”  cried  the  governor  in 
an  altered  voice. 

“Brought  here  by  force  —  brought  here  to  pick 
the  lock  of  the  great  door  for  them,”  rejoined  the 
lock-smith.  “Bear  witness  for  me,  Mr.  Akerman, 
that  I  refuse  to  do  it ;  and  that  I  will  not  do  it,  come 
what  may  of  my  refusal.  If  any  violence  is  done  to 
me,  please  to  remember  this.” 

“  Is  there  no  way  of  helping  you  ?”  said  the  gov¬ 
ernor. 

“  None,  Mr.  Akerman.  You’ll  do  your  duty,  and 
I’ll  do  mine.  Once  again,  you  robbers  and  cut¬ 
throats,”  said  the  lock -smith,  turning  round  upon 
them,  “ I  refuse.  Ah!  Howl  till  you’re  hoarse.  I 
refuse.” 

“  Stay — stay !”  said  the  jailer,  hastily.  “  Mr.  Var- 
den,  I  know  you  for  a  worthy  man,  and  one  who 
would  do  no  unlawful  act  except  upon  compul¬ 
sion — ” 

“  Upon  compulsion,  sir,”  interposed  the  lock-smith, 
who  felt  that  the  tone  in  which  this  was  said,  con¬ 
veyed  the  speaker’s  impression  that  he  had  ample 
excuse  for  yielding  to  the  furious  multitude  who  be¬ 
set  and  hemmed  him  in,  on  every  side,  and  among 
whom  he  stood,  an  old  man,  quite  alone;  “upon 
compulsion,  sir,  I’ll  do  nothing.” 

“  Where  is  that  man,”  said  the  keeper,  anxiously, 
“  who  spoke  to  me  just  now  ?” 

“Here!”  Hugh  replied. 

“Do  you  know  what  the  guilt  of  murder  is,  and 
that  by  keeping  that  honest  tradesman  at  your  side 
you  endanger  his  life?” 

“  We  know  it  very  well,”  he  answered,  “  for  what 
else  did  we  bring  him  here  ?  Let’s  have  our  friends, 
master,  and  you  shall  have  your  friend.  Is  that  fair, 
lads  ?” 

The  mob  replied  to  him  with  a  loud  Hurra ! 

“  You  see  how  it  is,  sir  ?”  cried  Varden.  “  Keep 
’em  out,  in  King  George’s  name.  Remember  what  I 
have  said.  Good-night !” 

There  was  no  more  parley.  A  shower  of  stones 
and  other  missiles  compelled  the  keeper  of  the  jail 
to  retire;  and  the  mob,  pressing  on,  and  swarming 
round  the  Avails,  forced  Gabriel  Varden  close  up  to 
the  door; 

In  vain  the  basket  of  tools  Avas  laid  upon  the 
ground  before  him,  and  he  was  urged  in  turn  by 
promises,  by  blows,  by  offers  of  reAvard,  and  threats 
of  instant  death,  to  do  the  office  for  Avhicli  they  had 
brought  him  there.  “No,”  cried  the  sturdy  lock¬ 
smith,  “  I  Avill  not !” 

He  had  neA-er  loved  his  life  so  well  as  then,  but 
nothing  could  move  him.  The  savage  faces  that 
glared  upon  him,  look  Avhere  he  AArould;  the  cries  of 
those  who  thirsted,  like  wild  animals,  for  his  blood  ; 
the  sight  of  men  pressing  forward,  and  trampling 


THE  LOCK-SMITH  OVERCOME. 


207 


down  their  fellows,  as  they  strove  to  reach  him,  and 
struck  at  him  above  the  heads  of  other  men,  with 
axes  and  with  iron  bars ;  all  failed  to  daunt  him. 
He  looked  from  man  .  to  man,  and  face  to  face,  and 
still,  with  quickened  breath  and  lessening  color,  cried 
firmly,  “  I  will  not  !” 

Dennis  dealt  him  a  blow  upon  the  face  which  fell¬ 
ed  him  to  the  ground.  He  sprung  up  again  like  a 
man  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  with  blood  upon  his 
forehead,  caught  him  by  the  throat. 

“You  cowardly  dog!”  he  said.  “Give  me  my 
daughter.  Give  me  my  daughter.” 

They  struggled  together.  Some  cried  “  Kill  him,” 
and  some  (but  they  were  not  near  enough)  strove  to 
trample  him  to  death.  Tug  as  he  would  at  the  old 
man’s  wrists,  the  hangmau  could  not  force  him  to 
unclench  his  hands. 

“  Is  this  all  the  return  you  make  me,  you  ungrate¬ 
ful  monster  ?”  he  articulated  with  great  difficulty, 
and  with  many  oaths. 

“  Give  me  my  daughter !”  cried  the  lock-smith,  who 
was  now  as  fierce  as  those  who  gathered  round  him. 
“Give  me  my  daughter.” 

He  was  down  again,  and  up,  and  down  once  more, 
and  buffeting  with  a  score  of  them,  who  bandied  him 
from  hand  to  hand,  when  one  tall  fellow,  fresh  from 
a  slaughter-house,  whose  dress  and  great  thigh-boots 
smoked  hot  with  grease  and  blood,  raised  a  pole-axe, 
and  swearing  a  horrible  oath,  aimed  it  at  the  old 
man’s  uncovered  head.  At  that  instant,  and  in  the 
very  act,  he  fell  himself,  as  if  struck  by  lightning,  and 
over  his  body  a  one-armed  man  came  darting  to  the 
lock-smith’s  side.  Another  man  was  with  him,  and 
both  caught  the  lock-smith  roughly  in  their  grasp. 

“Leave  him  to  us!”  they  cried  to  Hugh — strug¬ 
gling,  as  they  spoke,  to  force  a  passage  backward 
through  the  crowd.  “Leave  him  to  us.  Why  do 
you  waste  your  whole  strength  on  such  as  he,  when 
a  couple  of  men  can  finish  him  in  as  many  minutes  ? 
You  lose  time.  Remember  the  prisoners !  remember 
Barnaby!” 

The  cry  ran  through  the  mob.  Hammers  began 
to  rattle  on  the  walls ;  and  every  man  strove  to 
reach  the  prison,  and  be  among  the  foremost  rank. 
Fighting  their  way  through  the  press  and  struggle 
as  desperately  as  if  they  were  in  the  midst  of  ene¬ 
mies  rather  than  their  own  friends,  the  two  men  re¬ 
treated  with  the  lock-smith  between  them,  and  drag¬ 
ged  him  through  the  very  heart  of  the  concourse. 

And  now  the  strokes  began  to  fall  like  hail  upon 
the  gate,  and  on  the  strong  building ;  for  those  who 
could  not  reach  the  door,  spent  their  fierce  rage  on 
any  thing — even  on  the  great  blocks  of  stone,  which 
shivered  their  weapons  into  fragments,  and  made 
their  hands  and  arms  to  tingle  as  if  the  walls  were 
active  in  their  stout  resistance,  and  dealt  them  back 
their  blows.  The  clash  of  iron  ringing  upon  iron, 
mingled  with  the  deafening  tumult  and  sounded 
high  above  it,  as  the  great  sledge-hammers  rattled 
on  the  nailed  and  plated  door ;  the  sparks  flew  off 
in  showers;  men  worked  in  gangs,  and  at  short  in¬ 
tervals  relieved  each  other,  that  all  their  strength 
might  be  devoted  to  the  work ;  but  there  stood  the 
portal  still  as  grim  and  dark  and  strong  as  ever, 
and,  saving  for  the  dents  upon  its  battered  surface, 
quite  unchanged. 


While  some  brought  all  their  energies  to  bear 
upon  this  toilsome  task ;  and  some,  rearing  ladders 
against  the  prison  tried  to  clamber  to  the  summit  of 
the  walls  they  were  too  short  to  scale ;  and  some 
again  engaged  a  body  of  police  a  hundred  strong, 
and  beat  them  back  and  trod  them  under  foot  by 
force  of  numbers ;  others  besieged  the  house  on  which 
the  jailer  had  appeared,  and  driving  in  the  door, 
brought  out  his  furniture,  and  piled  it  up  against  the 
prison  gate,  to  make  a  bonfire  which  should  burn  it 
down.  As  soon  as  this  device  wras  understood,  all 
those  who  had  labored  hitherto,  cast  down  their 
tools  and  helped  to  swell  the  heap ;  which  reached 
half-way  across  the  street,  and  was  so  high,  that 
those  who  threw  more  fuel  on  the  top,  got  up  by  lad¬ 
ders.  When  all  the  keeper’s  goods  were  flung  upon 
this  costly  pile,  to  the  last  fragment,  they  smear¬ 
ed  it  with  the  piteli,  and  tar,  aud  rosin  they  had 
brought,  and  sprinkled  it  with  turpentine.  To  all 
the  wood-work  round  the  prison  doors,  they  did  the 
like,  leaving  not  a  joist  or  beam  untouched.  This 
infernal  christening  performed,  they  fired  the  pile 
with  lighted  matches  and  with  blazing  tow,  and 
then  stood  by,  awaiting  the  result. 

The  furniture  being  very  dry,  and  rendered  more 
combustible  by  wax  and  oil,  besides  the  arts  they 
had  used,  took  fire  at  once.  The  flames  roared  high 
and  fiercely,  blackening  the  prison  wall,  and  Twin¬ 
ing  up  its  lofty  front  like  burning  serpents.  At  first 
they  crowded  round  the  blaze,  aud  vented  their  ex¬ 
ultation  only  in  their  looks ;  but  when  it  grew  hot¬ 
ter  and  fiercer — when  it  crackled,  leaped,  and  roar¬ 
ed,  like  a  great  furnace — when  it  shone  upon  the  op¬ 
posite  houses,  and  lighted  up  not  only  the  pale  and 
wondering  faces  at  the  windows,  but  the  inmost  cor¬ 
ners  of  each  habitation — when  through  the  deep  red 
heat  and  glow,  the  fire  was  seen  sporting  and  toying 
with  the  door,  now  clinging  to  its  obdurate  surface, 
now  gliding  off  with  fierce  inconstancy  and  soaring 
high  into  the  sky,  anon  returning  to  fold  it  in  its 
burning  grasp  and  lure  it  to  its  ruin — when  it  shone 
and  gleamed  so  brightly  that  the  church  clock  of  St. 
Sepulchre’s,  so  often  pointing  to  the  hour  of  death, 
was  legible  as  in  broad  day,  and  the  vane  upon  its 
steeple-top  glittered  iu  the  unwonted  light  like  some¬ 
thing  richly  jeweled  —  when  blackened  stone  and 
sombre  brick  grew  ruddy  in  the  deep  reflection,  and 
windows  shone  like  burnished  gold,  dotting  the  long¬ 
est  distance  in  the  fiery  vista  with  their  specks  of 
brightness  —  when  wall  and  tower,  and  roof  aud 
chimney-stack,  seemed  drunk,  and  in  the  flickering- 
glare  appeared  to  reel  and  stagger — when  scores  of 
objects,  never  seen  before,  burst  out  upon  the  view, 
and  things  the  most  familiar  put  on  some  new  as¬ 
pect —  then  the  mob  began  to  join  the  whirl,  and 
with  loud  yells,  and  shouts,  and  clamor,  such  as  hap¬ 
pily  is  seldom  heard,  bestirred  themselves  to  feed  the 
lire,  and  keep  it  at  its  height. 

Although  the  heat  was  so  intense  that  the  paint 
on  the  houses  over  against  the  prison,  parched  and 
crackled  up,  and  swelling  into  boils,  as  it  were  from 
excess  of  torture,  broke  and  crumbled  away ;  al¬ 
though  the  glass  fell  from  the  window-sashes,  and 
the  lead  and  iron  on  the  roofs  blistered  the  incau¬ 
tious  hand  that  touched  them,  and  the  sparrows  in 
the  eaves  took  wing,  and  rendered  giddy  by  the 


208 


BARXABY  BUDGE. 


smoke,  fell  fluttering  down  upon  the  blazing  pile ; 
still  the  fire  was  tended  unceasingly  by  busy  hands, 
and  round  it,  men  were  going  always.  They  never 
slackened  in  their  zeal,  or  kept  aloof,  but  pressed 
upon  the  flames  so  hard,  that  those  in  front  had 
much  ado  to  save  themselves  from  being  thrust  in ; 
if  one  man  swooned  or  dropped,  a  dozen  struggled 
for  his  place,  and  that  although  they  knew  the  pain, 
and  thirst,  and  pressure  to  be  unendurable.  Those 
who  fell  down  in  fainting-fits,  and  were  not  crushed 
or  burned,  were  carried  to  an  inn-yard  close  at  hand, 
and  dashed  with  water  from  a  pump ;  of  which 
buckets  full  Avere  passed  from  mau  to  man  amoug 


and  holding  on  with  one  hand  by  the  prison  wall, 
exerted  all  their  skill  and  force  to  cast  these  fire¬ 
brands  on  the  roof,  or  down  into  the  yards  within. 
In  many  instances  their  efforts  Avere  successful ; 
which  occasioned  a  new  and  appalling  addition  to 
the  horrors  of  the  scene:  for  the  prisoners  within, 
seeing  from  between  their  bars  that  the  fire  caught 
in  many  places  and  thrived  fiercely,  and  being  all 
locked  iip  in  strong  cells  for  the  night,  began  to 
know  that  they  wrere  in  danger  of  being  burned 
alive.  This  terrible  fear,  spreading  from  cell  to  cell 
and  from  yard  to  yard,  vented  itself  in  such  dismal 
cries  and  wailings,  and  in  such  dreadful  shrieks  for 


mmi 


THE  EUKNING  OF  HEW  GATE. 


^  Vito 

InK 

lpBnv|| 

the  crowd ;  but  such  was  the  strong  desire  of  all  to 
drink,  and  such  the  fighting  to  be  first,  that,  for  the 
most  part,  the  wrhole  contents  vrere  spilled  upon 
the  ground,  without  the  lips  of  one  man  being 
moistened. 

Meanwhile,  and  in  the  midst  of  all  the  roar  and 
outcry,  those  who  w  ere  nearest  to  the  pile,  heaped 
up  again  the  burning  fragments  that  came  toppling 
down,  and  raked  the  fire  about  the  door,  wdiich,  al¬ 
though  a  sheet  of  flame,  was  still  a  door  fast  locked 
and  barred,  and  kept  them  out.  Great  pieces  of 
blazing  wood  were  passed,  besides,  above  the  peo¬ 
ple’s  heads  to  such  as  stood  about  the  ladders,  and 
some  of  these,  climbing  up  to  the  topmost  stave, 


help,  that  the  wfiole  jail  resounded  W'ith  the  noise; 
which  was  loudly  heard  even  above  the  shouting 
of  the  mob  and  roaring  of  the  flames,  and  was  so 
full  of  agony  and  despair,  that  it  made  the  boldest 
tremble. 

It  w  as  remarkable  that  these  cries  began  in  that 
quarter  of  the  jail  which  fronted  Newgate  Street, 
wdiere  it  was  well  known,  the  men  who  were  to  suf¬ 
fer  death  on  Thursday  were  confined.  And  not  only 
were  these  four  avIio  had  so  short  a  time  to  live,  the 
first  to  whom  the  dread  of  being  burned  occurred, 
but  they  were,  throughout,  the  most  importunate  of 
all :  for  they  could  be  plainly  heard,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  great  thickness  of  the  Avails,  crying  that  the 


PILE  UP  THE  FIRE  ! 


209 


wind  set  that  way,  and  that  the  flames  would  short¬ 
ly  reach  them ;  and  calling  to  the  officers  of  the  jail 
to  come  and  quench  the  fire  from  a  cistern  which 
was  in  their  yard,  and  full  of  water.  Judging  from 
what  the  crowd  outside  the  walls  could  hear  from 
time  to  time,  these  four  doomed  wretches  never 
ceased  to  call  for  help  ;  and  that  with  as  much  dis¬ 
traction,  and  in  as  great  a  frenzy  of  attachment  to 
existence,  as  though  each  had  an  honored,  happy 
life  before  him,  instead  of  eight-and-forty  hours  of 
miserable  imprisonment,  and  then  a  violent  and 
shameful  death. 

But  the  anguish  and  suffering  of  the  two  sons  of 
one  of  these  men,  when  they  heard,  or  fancied  that 
they  heard,  their  father’s  voice,  is  past  description. 
After  wringing  their  hands  and  rushing  to  and  fro  as 
if  they  were  stark  mad,  one  mounted  on  the  shoul¬ 
ders  of  his  brother,  and  tried  to  clamber  up  the  face 
of  the  high  Avail,  guarded  at  the  top  with  spikes  and 
points  of  iron.  And  when  he  fell  among  the  crowd, 
he  was  not  deterred  by  his  bruises,  but  mounted  up 
again,  and  fell  again,  and,  when  he  found  the  feat 
impossible,  began  to  beat  the  stones  and  tear  them 
Avith  his  hands,  as  if  he  could  that  way  make  a 
breach  in  the  strong  building,  and  force  a  passage 
in.  At  last,  they  cleft  their  way  among  the  mob 
about  the  door,  though  many  men,  a  dozen  times 
their  match,  had  tried  in  vain  to  do  so,  and  were 
seen,  in — yes,  in — the  fire,  striving  to  prize  it  down, 
with  crowbars. 

Nor  were  they  alone  affected  by  the  outcry  from 
within  the  prison.  The  women  who  were  looking 
on,  shrieked  loudly,  beat  their  hands  together,  stop¬ 
ped  their  ears;  and  many  fainted:  the  men  who 
were  not  near  the  Avails  and  active  in  the  siege, 
rather  than  do  nothing,  tore  up  the  paATemeut  of  the 
street,  and  did  so  with  a  haste  and  fury  they  could 
not  have  surpassed  if  that  had  been  the  jail,  and 
they  were  near  their  object.  No  one  living  creature 
in  the  throng  was  for  an  instant  still.  The  whole 
great  mass  were  mad. 

A  shout !  Another !  Another  yet,  though  feAV 
knew  why,  or  Avhat  it  meant.  But  those  around 
the  gate  had  seen  it  sloAvly  yield,  and  drop  from  its 
topmost  hinge.  It  hung  on  that  side  by  but  one, 
but  it  Avas  upright  still,  because  of  the  bar,  and  its 
ha\Ting  sunk,  of  its  own  weight,  into  the  heap  of 
ashes  at  its  foot.  There  was  uoav  a  gap  at  the  top 
of  the  door-way,  through  which  could  be  descried  a 
gloomy  passage,  cavernous  and  dark.  Pile  up  the 
fire ! 

It  burned  fiercely.  The  door  was  red-hot,  and 
the  gap  wider.  They  vainly  tried  to  shield  their 
faces  with  their  hands,  and  standing  as  if  in  readi¬ 
ness  for  a  spring,  watched  the  place.  Dark  figures, 
some  craAvling  on  their  hands  and  knees,  some  car¬ 
ried  in  the  arms  of  others,  were  seen  to  pass  along 
the  roof.  It  was  plain  the  jail  could  hold  out  no 
longer.  The  keeper,  and  his  officers,  and  their  wives 
and  children,  were  escaping.  Pile  up  the  fire ! 

The  door  sank  down  again  ;  it  settled  deeper  in 
the  cinders — tottered — yielded — was  down ! 

As  they  shouted  again,  they  fell  back,  for  a  mo¬ 
ment,  and  left  a  clear  space  about  the  fire  that  lay 
betAveen  them  and  the  jail  entry.  Hugh  leaped 
upon  the  blazing  heap,  and  scattering  a  train  of 

14 


sparks  into  the  air,  and  making  the  dark  lobby  glit¬ 
ter  with  those  that  hung  upon  his  dress,  dashed  into 
the  jail. 

The  hangman  followed.  And  then  so  many  rush¬ 
ed  upon  their  track,  that  the  fire  got  trodden  down 
and  thinly  strewn  about  the  street ;  but  there  was 
no  need  of  it  now,  for,  inside  and  out,  the  prison 
was  in  flames. 

- <$» - 

CHAPTER  LXY. 

URINGr  the  whole  course  of  the  terrible  sceue 
which  was  now  at  its  height,  one  man  in  the 
jail  suffered  a  degree  of  fear  and  mental  torment 
which  had  no  parallel  in  the  endurance,  even  of 
those  who  lay  under  sentence  of  death. 

When  the  rioters  first  assembled  before  the  build¬ 
ing,  the  murderer  was  roused  from  sleep — if  such 
slumbers  as  his  may  have  that  blessed  name — by 
the  roar  of  voices,  and  the  struggling  of  a  great 
crowd.  He  started  up  as  these  sounds  met  his  ear, 
and,  sitting  on  his  bedstead,  listened. 

After  a  short  interval  of  silence  the  noise  burst 
out  again.  Still  listening  attentively,  he  made  out, 
in  course  of  time,  that  the  jail  was  besieged  by  a 
furious  multitude.  His  guilty  conscience  instantly 
arrayed  these  men  against  himself,  and  brought  the 
fear  upon  him  that  he  would  be  singled  out,  and 
torn  to  pieces. 

Once  impressed  with  the  terror  of  this  conceit,  ev¬ 
ery  thing  tended  to  confirm  and  strengthen  it.  His 
double  crime,  the  circumstances  under  which  it  had 
been  committed,  the  length  of  time  that  had  elapsed, 
and  its  discovery  in  spite  of  all,  made  him,  as  it 
were,,  the  visible  object  of  the  Almighty’s  Avrath. 
In  all  the  crime  and  vice  and  moral  gloom  of  the 
great  pest-house  of  the  capital,  he  stood  alone,  mark¬ 
ed  and  singled  out  by  his  great  guilt,  a  Lucifer 
arnoug  the  deATils.  The  other  j)risoners  were  a  host, 
hiding  and  sheltering  each  other — a  crowd  like  that 
without  the  walls.  He  was  one  man  against  the 
whole  united  concourse;  a  single,  solitary,  lonely 
man,  from  whom  the  very  captives  in  the  jail  fell 
off  and  shrunk  appalled. 

It  might  be  that  the  intelligence  of  his  capture 
haAring  been  bruited  abroad,  they  had  come  there 
purposely  to  drag  him  out  and  kill  him  in  the  street ; 
or  it  might  be  that  they  were  the  rioters,  and,  in  pur¬ 
suance  of  an  old  design,  had  come  to  sack  the  prison. 
But  in  either  case  he  had  no  belief  or  hope  that  they 
would  spare  him.  Every  shout  they  raised,  and  ev¬ 
ery  sound  they  made,  was  a  blow  upon  his  heart.  As 
the  attack  went  on,  he  grew  more  wild  and  frantic 
in  his  terror :  tried  to  pull  aAvay  the  bars  that  guard¬ 
ed  the  chimuey  and  prevented  him  from  climbing 
up ;  called  loudly  on  the  turnkeys  to  cluster  round* 
the  cell  and  saAm  him  from  the  fury  of  the  rabble ; 
or  put  him  in  some  dungeon  under-ground,  no  matter 
of  what  depth,  how  dark  it  was,  or  loathsome,  or  be¬ 
set  with  rats  aud  creeping  things,  so  that  it  hid  him 
and  was  hard  to  find. 

But  no  one  came,  or  answered  him.  Fearful,  even 
while  he  cried  to  them,  of  attracting  attention,  he 
was  silent.  By-and-by,  he  saAV,  as  he  looked  from 
his  grated  window,  a  strange  glimmering  on  the 


210 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


stone  walls  and  pavement  of  tlie  yard.  It  was  fee¬ 
ble  at  first,  and  came  and  went,  as  though  some  of¬ 
ficers  with  torches  were  passing  to  and  fro  upon  the 
roof  of  the  prison.  Soon  it  reddened,  and  lighted 
brands  came  whirling  down,  spattering  the  ground 
with  fire,  and  burning  sullenly  in  corners.  One 
rolled  beneath  a  wooden  bench,  and  set  it  in  a  blaze ; 
another  caught  a  water-spout,  and  so  went  climbing 
up  the  wall,  leaving  a  long  straight  track  of  fire  be¬ 
hind  it.  After  a  time,  a  slow  thick  shower  of  burn¬ 
ing  fragments,  from  some  upper  portion  of  the  pris¬ 
on  which  was  blazing  nigh,  began  to  fall  before  his 
door.  Remembering  that  it  opened  outward,  he 
knew  that  every  spark  which  fell  upon  the  heap, 
and  in  the  act  lost  its  bright  life,  and  died  an  ugly 
speck  of  dust  and  rubbish,  helped  to  entomb  him  in 
a  living  grave.  Still,  though  the  jail  resounded  with 
shrieks  and  cries  for  help — though  the  fire  bounded 
up  as  if  each  separate  flame  had  had  a  tiger’s  life, 
and  roared  as  though,  in  every  one,  there  were  a 
hungry  voice — though  the  heat  began  to  grow  in¬ 
tense,  and  the  air  suffocating,  and  the  clamor  with¬ 
out  increased,  and  the  danger  of  his  situation  even 
from  one  merciless  element  was  every  moment  more 
extreme — still  he  was  afraid  to  raise  his  voice  again, 
lest  the  crowd  should  break  in,  and  should,  of  their 
own  ears  or  from  the  information  given  them  by  the 
other  prisoners,  get  the  clue  to  his  place  of  confine¬ 
ment.  Thus  fearful  alike,  of  those  within  the  prison 
and  of  those  without;  of  noise  and  silence;  light 
and  darkness ;  of  being  released,  and  being  left  there 
to  die ;  he  was  so  tortured  and  tormented,  that  noth¬ 
ing  man  has  ever  done  to  man  in  the  horrible  ca¬ 
price  of  power  and  cruelty,  exceeds  his  self-inflicted 
punishment. 

Now,  now,  the  door  was  down.  Now  they  came 
rushing  through  the  jail,  calling  to  each  other  in  the 
vaulted  passages ;  clashing  the  iron  gates  dividing 
yard  from  yard ;  beating  at  the  doors  of  cells  and 
wards;  wrenching  off  bolts  and  locks  and  bars; 
tearing  down  the  door-posts  to  get  men  out;  en¬ 
deavoring  to  drag  them  by  main  force  through  gaps 
and  windows  where  a  child  could  scarcely  pass; 
whooping  and  yelling  without  a  moment’s  rest ;  and 
running  through  the  heat  and  flames  as  if  they  were 
cased  in  metal.  By  their  legs,  their  arms,  the  hair 
upon  their  heads,  they  dragged  the  prisoners  out. 
Some  threw  themselves  upon  their  captives  as  they 
got  toward  the  door,  and  tried  to  file  away  their 
irons;  some  danced  about  them  with  a  frenzied  joy, 
and  rent  their  clothes,  and  were  ready,  as  it  seemed, 
to  tear  them  limb  from  limb.  Now  a  party  of  a  doz¬ 
en  men  came  darting  through  the  yard  into  which 
the  murderer  cast  fearful  glances  from  his  darken¬ 
ed  window ;  dragging  a  prisoner  along  the  ground 
whose  dress  they  had  nearly  torn  from  his  body  in 
'their  mad  eagerness  to  set  him  free,  and  who  was 
bleeding  and  senseless  in  their  hands.  Now  a  score 
of  prisoners  ran  to  and  fro,  who  had  lost  themselves  in 
the  intricacies  of  the  prison,  and  were  so  bewildered 
with  the  noise  aud  glare  that  they  knew  not  where 
to  turn  or  what  to  do,  and  still  cried  out  for  help,  as 
loudly  as  before.  Anon  some  famished  wretch  whose 
theft  had  been  a  loaf  of  bread,  or  scrap  of  butcher’s 
meat,  came  skulking  past,  barefooted — going  slowly 
away  because  that  jail,  his  house,  was  burning ;  not 


because  he  had  any  other,  or  had  friends  to  meet,  or 
old  haunts  to  revisit,  or  any  liberty  to  gain,  but  lib¬ 
erty  to  starve  and  die.  And  then  a  knot  of  high¬ 
waymen  went  troopiug  by,  conducted  by  the  friends 
they  had  among  the  crowd,  who  muffled  their  fetters 
as  they  went  along,  with  handkerchiefs  and  bands 
of  hay,  and  wrapped  them  in  coats  and  cloaks,  and 
gave  them  drink  from  bottles,  and  held  it  to  their 
lips,  because  of  their  handcuffs  which  there  was  no 
time  to  remove.  All  this,  and  Heaven  knows  how 
much  more,  was  done  amidst  a  noise,  a  hurry,  and 
distraction,  like  nothing  that  we  know  of,  even  in 
our  dreams ;  which  seemed  forever  on  the  rise,  and 
never  to  decrease  for  the  space  of  a  single  instant. 

He  was  still  looking  down  from  his  window  upon 
these  things,  when  a  band  of  men  with  torches,  lad¬ 
ders,  axes,  and  many  kinds  of  weapons,  poured  into 
the  yard,  and  hammering  at  his  door,  inquired  if 
there  were  any  prisoner  within.  He  left  the  win¬ 
dow  when  he  saw  them  coming,  and  drew  back  into 
the  remotest  corner  of  the  cell ;  but  although  he  re¬ 
turned  them  no  answer,  they  had  a  fancy  that  some 
one  was  inside,  for  they  presently  set  ladders  against 
it,  aud  began  to  tear  away  the  bars  at  the  casement ; 
not  only  that,  indeed,  but  with  pickaxes  to  hew 
down  the  very  stones  in  the  wall. 

As  soon  as  they  had  made  a  breach  at  the  window, 
large  enough  for  the  admission  of  a  man’s  head,  one 
of  them  thrust  in  a  torch  and  looked  all  round  the 
room.  He  followed  this  man’s  gaze  until  it  rested 
on  himself,  and  heard  him  demand  why  he  had  not 
answered,  but  made  him  no  reply. 

In  the  general  surprise  and  wonder,  they  were 
used  to  this ;  without  saying  any  thing  more,  they 
enlarged  the  breach  until  it  was  large  enough  to  ad¬ 
mit  the  body  of  a  man,  and  then  came  dropping  down 
upon  the  floor,  one  after  another,  until  the  cell  was 
full.  They  caught  him  up  among  them,  handed  him 
to  the  window,  and  those  who  stood  upon  the  lad¬ 
ders  passed  him  down  upon  the  pavement  of  the 
yard.  Then  the  rest  came  out,  one  after  another, 
and,  bidding  him  fly,  and  lose  no  time,  or  the  way 
would  be  choked  up,  hurried  away  to  rescue  others. 

It  seemed  not  a  minute’s  work  from  first  to  last. 
He  staggered  to  his  feet,  incredulous  of  what  had 
happened,  when  the  yard  was  filled  again,  and  a 
crowd  rushed  on,  hurrying  Barnaby  among  them. 
In  another  minute — not  so  much:  another  minute* 
the  same  iustant,  with  no  lapse  or  interval  between  ! 
— he  and  his  son  were  being  passed  from  hand  to 
hand,  through  the  dense  crowd  in  the  street,  and, 
were  glancing  backward  at  a  burning  pile  which 
some  one  said  was  Newgate. 

From  the  moment  of  their  first  entrance  into  the 
prison,  the  crowd  dispersed  themselves  about  it,  and 
swarmed  into  every  chink  and  crevice,  as  if  they 
had  a  perfect  acquaintance  with  its  innermost  parts, 
and  bore  in  their  minds  an  exact  plan  of  the  whole. 
For  this  immediate  knowledge  of  the  place,  they 
were,  no  doubt,  in  a  great  degree,  indebted  to  the 
hangman,  who  stood  in  the  lobby,  directing  some  to 
go  this  way,  some  that,  and  some  the  other ;  and 
who  materially  assisted  in  bringing  about  the  won¬ 
derful  rapidity  with  which  the  release  of  the  prison¬ 
ers  was  effected. 

But  this  functionary  of  the  law  reserved  one  im- 


MR.  DENNIS  ENJOYS  HIMSELF. 


211 


portant  piece  of  intelligence,  and  kept  it  snugly  to 
himself.  When  he  had  issued  his  instructions  rela¬ 
tive  to  every  other  part  of  the  building,  and  the  mob 
Avere  dispersed  from  end  to  end,  and  busy  at  their 
work,  he  took  a  bundle  of  keys  from  a  kind  of  cup¬ 
board  in  the  wall,  and  going  by  a  kind  of  passage 
near  the  chapel  (it  joined  the  governor’s  house,  and 
was  then  on  fire),  betook  himself  to  the  condemned 
cells,  which  were  a  series  of  small,  strong,  dismal 
rooms,  opening  on  a  low  gallery,  guarded,  at  the  end 
at  which  he  entered,  by  a  strong  iron  wicket,  and  at 
its  opposite  extremity  by  two  doors  and  a  thick  gate. 
Having  double-locked  the  wicket,  and  assured  him¬ 
self  that  the  other  entrances  were  well  secured,  he 
sat  down  on  a  bench  in  the  gallery,  and  sucked  the 
head  of  his  stick  with  the  utmost  complacency,  tran¬ 
quillity,  and  contentment. 

It  would  have  been  strange  enough,  a  man’s  en¬ 
joying  himself  in  this  quiet  manner,  while  the  pris¬ 
on  was  burning,  and  such  a  tumult  was  cleaving  the 
air,  though  he  had  been  outside  the  walls.  But  here, 
in  the  very  heart  of  the  building,  and  moreover  with 
the  prayers  and  cries  of  the  four  men  under  sentence 
sounding  in  his  ears,  and  their  hands,  stretched  out 
through  the  gratings  in  their  cell  doors,  clasped  in 
frantic  entreaty  before  his  very  eyes,  it  was  partic¬ 
ularly  remarkable.  Indeed,  Mr.  Dennis  appeared  to 
think  it  an  uncommon  circumstance,  and  to  banter 
himself  upon  it ;  for  he  thrust  his  hat  on  one  side  as 
some  men  do  when  they  are  in  a  waggish  humor, 
sucked  the  head  of  his  stick  with  a  higher  relish, 
and  smiled  as  though  he  would  say,  “  Dennis,  you’re 
a  rum  dog;  you’re  a  queer  fellow;  you’re  capital 
company,  Dennis,  and  quite  a  character !” 

He  sat  in  this  way  for  some  minutes,  while  the 
four  men  in  the  cells,  certain  that  somebody  had  en¬ 
tered  the  gallery,  but  could  not  see  who,  gave  vent 
to  such  piteous  entreaties  as  wretches  in  their  mis¬ 
erable  condition  may  be  supposed  to  have  been  in¬ 
spired  with ;  urging,  whoever  it  was,  to  set  them  at 
liberty,  for  the  love  of  Heaven ;  and  protesting,  with 
great  fervor,  and  truly  enough,  perhaps,  for  the  time, 
that  if  they  escaped,  they  would  amend  their  ways, 
and  would  never,  never,  never  again  do  wrong  be¬ 
fore  God  or  man,  but  would  lead  penitent  and  sober 
lives,  and  sorrowfully  repent  the  crimes  they  had 
committed.  The  terrible  energy  with  which  they 
spoke,  would  have  moved  any  person,  no  matter  how 
good  or  just  (if  auy  good  or  just  person  could  have 
strayed  into  that  sad  place  that  night)  to  have  set 
them  at  liberty :  and,  while  he  would  have  left  any 
other  punishment  to  its  free  course,  to  have  saved 
them  from  this  last  dreadful  and  repulsive  penal¬ 
ty  ;  which  never  turned  a  man  inclined  to  evil,  and 
has  hardened  thousands  who  were  half  inclined  to 
good. 

Mr.  Dennis,  who  had  been  bred  and  matured  in 
the  good  old  school,  and  had  administered  the  good 
old  laws  on  the  good  old  plan,  always  once  and  some¬ 
times  twice  every  six  weeks,  for  a  long  time,  bore 
these  appeals  with  a  deal  of  philosophy.  Being  at 
last,  however,  rather  disturbed  in  his  pleasant  re¬ 
flection  by  tlieir  repetition,  he  rapped  at  one  of  the 
doors  with  his  stick,  and  cried  : 

“  Hold  your  noise  there,  will  you !” 

At  this  they  all  cried  together  that  they  were  to 


be  hanged  on  the  next  day  but  one ;  and  again  im¬ 
plored  his  aid. 

“Aid !  For  what  ?”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  playfully  rap¬ 
ping  the  knuckles  of  the  haud  nearest  him. 

“  To  save  us !”  they  cried. 

“  Oh,  certainly,”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  winking  at  the 
wall  in  the  absence  of  any  friend  with  whom  he 
could  humor  the  joke.  “And  so  you’re  to  be  worked 
off ;  are  you  brothers  ?” 

“  Unless  we  are  released  to  -  night,”  one  of  them 
cried,  “  we  are  dead  men  !” 

“  I  tell  you  what  it  is,”  said  the  hangman,  grave¬ 
ly  ;  “  I’m  afraid,  my  friend,  that  you’re  not  in  that 
’ere  state  of  mind  that’s  suitable  to  your  condition, 
then  ;  you’re  not  agoing  to  be  released :  don’t  think 
it —  Will  you  leave  off  that  ’ere  indecent  row  ?  I 
Avonder  you  au’t  ashamed  of  yourseWes,  I  do.” 

He  followed  up  this  reproof  by  rapping  every  set 
of  knuckles  one  after  the  other,  and  having  done 
so,  resumed  his  seat  again  with  a  cheerful  counte¬ 
nance. 

“  You’ve  had  law,”  he  said,  crossing  his  legs  and 
elevating  his  eyebrows :  “  laAvs  haAre  been  made  a’ 
purpose  for  you ;  a  wery  haudsome  prison’s  been 
made  a’ purpose  for  you;  a  parson’s  kept  a’ purpose 
for  you ;  a  constitootional  officer’s  appointed  a’  pur¬ 
pose  for  you;  carts  is  maintained  a’  purpose  for  you 
— and  yet  you’re  not  contented! — Will  you  hold  that 
noise,  you  sir,  in  the  farthest  ?” 

A  groan  was  the  only  answer. 

“  So  well  as  I  can  make  out,”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  in  a 
tone  of  mingled  badinage  and  remonstrance,  “  there’s 
not  a  man  among  you.  I  begin  to  think  I’m  on  the 
opposite  side,  and  among  the  ladies  ;  though  for  the 
matter  of  that,  I’ve  seen  a  many  ladies  face  it  out,  in 
a  manner  that  did  honor  to  the  sex. — You,  in  num¬ 
ber  two,  don’t  grind  them  teeth  of  yours.  Worse 
manners,”  said  the  hangman,  rapping  at  the  door 
with  his  stick,  “  I  never  see  in  this  place  afore.  I’m 
ashamed  of  you.  You’re  a  disgrace  to  the  Bailey.” 

After  pausing  for  a  moment  to  hear  if  auy  thing 
could  be  pleaded  in  justification,  Mr.  Dennis  resumed 
in  a  sort  of  coaxing  tone : 

“Now  look’ee  here,  you  four.  I’m  come  here  to 
take  care  of  you,  and  see  that  you  an’t  burned,  in¬ 
stead  of  the  other  thing.  It’s  no  use  your  making 
any  noise,  for  you  won’t  be  found  out  by  them  as  has 
broken  in,  and  you’ll  only  be  hoarse  when  you  come 
to  the  speeches  —  which  is  a  pity.  What  I  say  in 
respect  to  the  speeches  always  is,  1  Give  it  mouth.’ 
That’s  my  maxim.  Give  it  mouth.  I’ve  heerd,” 
said  the  hangman,  pulling  off  his  hat  to  take  his 
handkerchief  from  the  croAvn  and  wipe  his  face,  and 
then  putting  it  on  again  a  little  more  on  one  side 
than  before,  “I’ve  heerd  a  eloquence  on  them  boards 
— you  know  what  boards  I  mean — and  have  heerd  a 
degree  of  mouth  given  to  them  speeches,  that  they 
was  as  clear  as  a  bell,  and  as  good  as  a  play.  There’s 
a  pattern !  And  always,  Avhen  a  thing  of  this  natur’s 
to  come  off,  Avhat  I  stand  up  for  is,  a  proper  frame  of 
mind.  Let’s  have  a  proper  frame  of  mind,  and  we 
can  go  through  with  it,  creditable — pleasant  —  so¬ 
ciable.  Whatever  you  do  (and  I  address  myself,  in 
particular,  to  you  in  the  farthest)  never  snivel.  I’d 
sooner  by  half,  though  I  lose  by  it,  see  a  mau  tear 
his  clothes  a’  purpose  to  spile  ’em  before  they  come 


212 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


to  me,  than  find  him  sniveling.  It’s  ten  to  one  a 
better  frame  of  mind  every  way !” 

While  the  hangman  addressed  them  to  this  effect, 
in  the  tone  and  with  the  air  of  a  pastor  in  familiar 
conversation  with  his  flock,  the  noise  had  been  in 
some  degree  subdued ;  for  the  rioters  were  busy  in 
conveying  the  prisoners  to  the  Sessions  House,  which 
was  beyond  the  main  walls  of  the  prison,  though 
connected  with  it,  and  the  crowd  were  busy  too,  in 
passing  them  from  thence  along  the  street.  But 
when  he  had  got  thus  far  in  his  discourse,  the  sound 
of  voices  in  the  yard  showed  plainly  that  the  mob 
had  returned  and  were  coming  that  way;  and  di¬ 
rectly  afterward  a  violent  crashing  at  the  grate  be¬ 
low,  gave  note  of  their  attack  upon  the  cells  (as  they 
were  called)  at  last. 

It  was  in  vain  the  hangman  ran  from  door  to 
door,  and  covered  the  grates,  one  after  another,  with 
his  hat,  in  futile  efforts  to  stifle  the  cries  of  the  four 
men  within ;  it  was  in  vain  he  dogged  their  out¬ 
stretched  hands,  and  beat  them  with  his  stick,  or 
menaced  them  with  new  and  lingering  pains  in  the 
execution  of  his  office ;  the  place  resounded  with 
their  cries.  These,  together  with  the  feeling  that 
they  were  now  the  last  men  in  the  jail,  so  worked 
upon  and  stimulated  the  besiegers,  that  in  an  in¬ 
credibly  short  space  of  time  they  forced  the  strong 
grate  down  below,  which  was  formed  of  iron  rods 
two  inches  square,  drove  in  the  two  other  doors,  as 
if  they  had  been  but  deal  partitions,  and  stood  at 
the  end  of  the  gallery  with  only  a  bar  or  two  be¬ 
tween  them  and  the  cells. 

“  Halloo !”  cried  Hugh,  who  was  the  first  to  look 
into  the  dusky  passage;  “Dennis  before  us!  Well 
done,  old  boy.  Be  quick,  and  open  here,  for  we  shall 
be  suffocated  in  the  smoke,  going  out.” 

“  Go  out  at  once,  then,”  said  Dennis.  “What  do 
you  want  here  ?” 

“  Want !”  echoed  Hugh.  “  The  four  men.” 

“Four  devils!”  cried  the  hangman.  “Don’t  you 
know  they’re  left  for  death  on  Thursday?  Don’t 
you  respect  the  law — the  constitootion — nothing? 
Let  the  four  men  be.” 

“  Is  this  a  time  for  joking  ?”  cried  Hugh.  “  Do  yon 
hear  ’em  ?  Pull  away  these  bars  that  have  got  fixed 
between  the  door  and  the  ground  ;  and  let  us  in.” 

“  Brother,”  said  the  hangman,  in  a  low  voice,  as  he 
stooped  under  pretense  of  doing  what  Hugh  desired, 
but  only  looked  up  in  his  face,  “  can’t  you  leave 
these  here  four  men  to  me,  if  I’ve  the  whim  ?  You 
do  what  yon  like,  and  have  what  you  like  of  every 
thing  for  your  share  —  give  me  my  share.  I  want 
these  four  men  left  alone,  I  tell  you !” 

“  Pull  the  bars  down,  or  stand  out  of  the  way,” 
was  Hugh’s  reply. 

“  You  can  turn  the  crowd  if  you  like,  you  know 
that  well  enough,  brother,”  said  the  hangman,  slow¬ 
ly.  “  What !  You  will  come  in,  will  you  ?” 

«  Yes.” 

“You  won’t  let  these  men  alone,  and  leave  ’em  to 
me  ?  You’ve  no  respect  for  nothing — haven’t  you  ?” 
said  the  hangman,  retreating  to  the  door  by  which 
he  had  entered,  and  regarding  his  companion  with  a 
scowl.  “You  ivill  come  in,  will  you,  brother?” 

“  I  tell  you,  yes.  What  the  devil  ails  you  ?  Where 
are  you  going  ?” 


“  No  matter  where  I’m  going,”  rejoined  the  hang¬ 
man,  looking  in  again  at  the  iron  wicket,  which  ho 
had  nearly  shut  upon  himself,  and  held  ajar.  “Re¬ 
member  where  you’re  coming.  That’s  all !” 

With  that,  he  shook  his  likeness  at  Hugh,  and  giv¬ 
ing  him  a  grin,  compared  with  which  his  usual  smile 
was  amiable,  disappeared,  and  shut  the  door. 

Hugh  paused  no  longer,  but  goaded  alike  by  the 
cries  of  the  convicts,  and  by  the  impatience  of  the 
crowd,  warned  the  man  immediately  behind  him — 
the  way  was  only  wide  enough  for  one  abreast — to 
stand  back,  and  wielded  a  sledge-hammer  with  such 
strength,  that  after  a  few  blows  the  iron  bent  and 
broke,  and  gave  them  free  admittance. 

If  the  two  sons  of  one  of  these  men,  of  whom  men¬ 
tion  has  been  made,  were  furious  in  their  z$al  before, 
they  had  now  the  wrath  and  vigor  of  lions.  Calling 
to  the  man  within  each  cell,  to  keep  as  far  back  as 
he  could,  lest  the  axes  crashing  through  the  door 
should  wound  him,  a  party  went  to  work  upon  each 
one,  to  beat  it  in  by  sheer  strength,  and  force  the 
bolts  and  staples  from  their  hold.  But  although 
these  two  lads  had  the  weakest  party,  and  the  worst 
armed,  and  did  not  begin  until  after  the  others,  hav¬ 
ing  stopped  to  whisper  to  him  through  the  grate, 
that  door  was  the  first  open,  and  that  man  was  the 
first  out.  As  they  dragged  him  into  the  gallery  to 
knock  off  his  irons,  he  fell  down  among  them,  a  mere 
heap  of  chains,  and  was  carried  out  in  that  state  on 
men’s  shoulders,  with  no  sign  of  life. 

The  release  of  these  four  wretched  creatures,  and 
conveying  them,  astounded  and  bewildered,  into  the 
streets* so  full  of  life — a  spectacle  they  had  never 
thought  to  see  again,  until  they  emerged  from  soli¬ 
tude  and  silence  upon  that  last  journey,  when  the 
air  should  be  heavy  with  the  pent-up  breath  of  thou¬ 
sands,  and  the  streets  and  houses  should  be  built  and 
roofed  with  human  faces,  not  with  bricks  and  tiles 
and  stones — was  the  crowning  horror  of  the  scene. 
Their  pale  and  haggard  looks  and  hollow  eyes ;  their 
staggering  feet,  and  hands  stretched  out  as  if  to 
save  themselves  from  falling ;  their  wandering  and 
uncertain  air ;  the  way  they  heaved  and  gasped  for 
breath,  as  though  in  water,  when  they  were  first 
plunged  into  the  crowd;  all  marked  them  for  the 
men.  No  need  to  say  “  this  one  was  doomed  to  die ;” 
for  there  were  the  words  broadly  stamped  and  brand¬ 
ed  on  his  face.  The  crowd  fell  off,  as  if  they  had 
been  laid  out  for  burial,  and  had  risen  in  their 
shrouds ;  and  many  were  seen  to  shudder,  as  though 
they  had  been  actually  dead  men,  when  they  chanced 
to  touch  or  brush  against  their  garments. 

At  the  bidding  of  the  mob,  the  houses  were  all  il¬ 
luminated  that  night — lighted  up  from  top  to  bot¬ 
tom  as  at  a  time  of  public  gayety  and  joy.  Many 
years  afterward,  old  people  who  lived  in  their  youth 
near  this  part  of  the  city,  remembered  being  in  a 
great  glare  of  light,  within  doors  and  without,  and 
as  they  looked,  timid  and  frightened  children,  from 
the  windows,  seeing  a  face  go  by.  Though  the  whole 
great  crowd  and  all  its  other  terrors  had  faded  from 
their  recollection,  this  one  object  remained;  alone, 
distinct,  and  well  remembered.  Even  in  the  unprac¬ 
ticed  minds  of  infants,  one  of  these  doomed  men 
darting  past,  and  but  an  instant  seen,  was  an  im¬ 
age  of  force  enough  to  dim  the  whole  concourse ;  to 


MB.  HABEDALE  DESTITUTE. 


213 


find  itself  an  all-absorbing  place,  and  hold  it  ever 
after. 

When  this  last  task  had  been  achieved,  the  shouts 
and  cries  grew  fainter ;  the  clank  of  fetters,  which 
had  resounded  on  all  sides  as  the  prisoners  escaped, 
was  heard  no  more ;  all  the  noises  of  the  crowd  sub¬ 
sided  into  a  hoarse  and  sullen  murmur  as  it  passed 
into  the  distance ;  and  when  the  human  tide  had 
rolled  away,  a  melancholy  heap  of  smoking  ruins 
marked  the  spot  where  it  had  lately  chafed  and 
roared. 


CHAPTER  LXVI. 

LTHOUGH  he  had  had  no  rest  upon  the  previ¬ 
ous  night,  and  had  watched  with  little  intermis¬ 
sion  for  some  weeks  past,  sleeping  only  in  the  day 
by  starts  and  snatches,  Mr.  Haredale,  from  the  dawn 
of  morning  until  sunset,  sought  his  niece  in  every 
place  where  he  deemed  it  possible  she  could  have 
taken  refuge.  All  day  long,  nothing,  save  a  draught 
of  water,  passed  his  lips ;  though  he  prosecuted  his 
inquiries  far  and  wide,  and  never  so  much  as  sat 
down,  once. 

In  every  quarter  he  could  think  of ;  at  Chigwell 
and  in  London ;  at  the  houses  of  the  tradespeople 
with  whom  he  dealt,  and  of  the  friends  he  knew; 
he  pursued  his  search.  A  prey  to  the  most  harrow¬ 
ing  anxieties  and  apprehensions,  he  went  from  mag¬ 
istrate  to  magistrate,  and  finally  to  the  Secretary  of 
State.  The  only  comfort  he  received  was  from  this 
minister,  who  assured  him  that  the  Government,  be¬ 
ing  now  driven  to  the  exercise  of  the  extreme  pre¬ 
rogatives  of  the  Crown,  were  determined  to  exert 
them ;  that  a  proclamation  would  probably  be  out 
upon  the  morrow,  giving  to  the  military,  discretion¬ 
ary  and  unlimited  power  in  the  suppression  of  the 
riots  ;  that  the  sympathies  of  the  King,  the  Admin¬ 
istration,  and  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  and  indeed 
of  all  good  men  of  every  religious  persuasion,  were 
strongly  with  the  injured  Catholics;  and  that  jus¬ 
tice  should  be  done  them  at  any  cost  or  hazard.  He 
told  him,  moreover,  that  other  persons  whose  houses 
had  been  burned,  had  for  a  time  lost  sight  of  their 
children  or  their  relatives,  but  had,  in  every  case, 
within  his  knowledge,  succeeded  in  discovering  them ; 
that  his  complaint  should  be  remembered,  and  fully 
stated  in  the  instructions  given  to  the  officers  in 
command,  and  to  all  the  inferior  myrmidons  of  jus¬ 
tice  ;  and  that  every  thing  that  could  be  done  to 
help  him,  should  be  done,  with  a  good  will  and  in 
good  faith. 

Grateful  for  this  consolation,  feeble  as  it  was  in 
its  reference  to  the  past;  and  little  hope  as  it  afford¬ 
ed  him  in  connection  with  the  subject  of  distress 
which  lay  nearest  to  his  heart ;  and  really  thankful 
for  the  interest  the  minister  expressed,  and  seemed 
to  feel,  in  his  condition ;  Mr.  Haredale  withdrew. 
He  found  himself,  with  the  night  coming  on,  alone 
in  the  streets ;  and  destitute  of  any  place  in  which 
to  lay  his  head. 

He  entered  a  hotel  near  Charing  Cross,  and  or¬ 
dered  some  refreshment  and  a  bed.  He  saw  that 
his  faint  and  worn  appearance  attracted  the  atten¬ 
tion  of  the  landlord  and  his  waiters ;  and  thinking 


that  they  might  suppose  him  to  be  penniless,  took 
out  his  purse,  and  laid  it  on  the  table.  It  was  not 
that,  the  landlord  said,  in  a  faltering  voice.  If  he 
were  one  of  those  who  had  suffered  by  the  rioters, 
he  durst  not  give  him  entertainment.  He  had  a 
family  of  children,  and  had  been  twice  warned  to  be 
careful  in  receiving  guests.  He  heartily  prayed  his 
forgiveness,  but  what  could  he  do  ? 

Nothing.  No  man  felt  that  more  sincerely  than 
Mr.  Haredale.  He  told  the  man  as  much,  and  left 
the  house. 

Feeling  that  he  might  have  anticipated  this  oc¬ 
currence,  after  what  he  had  seen  at  Chigwell  in  the 
morning,  where  no  man  dared  to  touch  a  sp<ade, 
though  he  offered  a  large  reward  to  all  who  would 
come  and  dig  among  the  ruins  of  his  house,  he  walk¬ 
ed  along  the  Strand ;  too  proud  to  expose  himself  to 
another  refusal,  and  of  too  generous  a  spirit  to  in¬ 
volve  in  distress  or  ruin  aoy  honest  tradesman  who 
might  be  weak  enough  to  give  him  shelter.  He 
wandered  into  one  of  the  streets  by  the  side  of  the 
river,  and  was  pacing  in  a  thoughtful  manner  up 
and  down,  thinking  of  things  that  had  happened 
long  ago,  when  he  heard  a  servant-man  at  an  upper 
window  call  to  another  at  the  opposite  side  oif  the 
street,  that  the  mob  were  setting  fire  to  Newgate. 

To  Newgate!  where  that  man  was!  His  failing 
strength  returned,  his  energies  came  back  with  ten¬ 
fold  vigor,  on  the  instant.  If  it  were  possible — if 
they  should  set  the  murderer  free — was  he,  after  all 
he  had  undergone,  to  die  with  the  suspicion  of  having 
slain  his  own  brother,  dimly  gathering  about  him — 

He  had  no  consciousness  of  going  to  the  jail;  but 
there  he  stood,  before  it.  There  was  the  crowd 
wedged  and  pressed  together  in  a  dense,  dark,  mov¬ 
ing  mass ;  and  there  were  the  flames  soaring  up  into 
the  air.  His  head  turned  round  and  round,  lights 
flashed  before  his  eyes,  and  he  struggled  hard  with 
two  men. 

“Nay,  nay,”  said  one.  “Be  more  yourself,  my 
good  sir.  We  attract  attention  here.  Come  away. 
What  can  you  do  among  so  many  men  ?” 

“The  gentleman’s  always  for  doing  something,” 
said  the  other,  forcing  him  along  as  he  spoke.  “  I 
like  him  for  that.  I  do  like  him  for  that.” 

They  had  by  this  time  got  him  into  ajcourt  hard 
by  the  prison.  He  looked  from  one  to  the  other, 
and  as  he  tried  to  release  himself,  felt  that  he  tot¬ 
tered  on  his  feet.  He  who  had  spoken  first  was  the 
old  gentleman  whom  he  had  seen  at  the  Lord  May¬ 
or’s.  The  other  was  John  Grueby,  who  had  stood 
by  him  so  manfully  at  Westminster. 

“What  does  this  mean?”  he  asked  them,  faintly. 
“  How  came  we  together  ?” 

“  On  the  skirts  of  the  crowd,”  returned  the  distill¬ 
er  ;  “  but  come  with  us.  Pray  come  with  us.  You 
seem  to  know  my  friend  here  ?” 

“  Surely,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  looking  in  a  kind  of 
stupor  at  John. 

“  He’ll  tell  you,  then,”  returned  the  old  gentleman, 
“  that  I  am  a  man  to  be  trusted.  He’s  my  servant. 
He  was  lately  (as  you  know,  I  have  no  doubt)  in 
Lord  George  Gordon’s  service;  but  he  left  it,  and 
brought,  in  pure  good-will  to  me  and  others,  who 
are  marked  by  the  rioters,  such  intelligence  as  he 
had  picked  up,  of  their  designs.” 


214 


BARN  A  BY  BUDGE. 


“  On  one  condition,  please,  sir,”  said  John,  touch¬ 
ing  his  hat.  “No  evidence  against  my  lord — a  mis¬ 
led  man — a  kind-hearted  man,  sir.  My  lord  never 
intended  this.” 

“The  condition  will  he  observed,  of  course,”  re¬ 
joined  the  old  distiller.  “It’s  a  point  of  honor. 
But  come  with  us,  sir;  pray  come  with  us.” 

John  Grueby  added  no  entreaties,  but  he  adopted 
a  different  kind  of  persuasion,  by  putting  his  arm 
through  one  of  Mr.  Haredale’s,  while  his  master  took 
the  other,  and  leading  him  away  with  all  speed. 

Sensible,  from  a  strange  lightness  in  his  head,  and 
a  difficulty  in  fixing  his  thoughts  on  any  thing,  even 
to  the  extent  of  bearing  his  companions  in  his  mind 
for  a  minute  together  without  looking  at  them,  that 
his  brain  was  affected  by  the  agitation  and  suffering 
through  which  he  had  passed,  and  to  which  he  was 
still  a  prey,  Mr.  Haredale  let  them  lead  him  where 
they  would.  As  they  went  along,  he  was  conscious 
of  having  no  command  over  what  he  said  or  thought, 
and  that  he  had  a  fear  of  going  mad. 

The  distiller  lived,  as  he  had  told  him  when  they 
first  met,  on  Holborn  Hill,  where  he  had  great  store¬ 
houses  and  drove  a  large  trade.  They  approached 
his  house  by  a  back  entrance,  lest  they  should  at¬ 
tract  the  notice  of  the  crowd,  and  went  into  an  up¬ 
per  room  which  faced  toward  the  street ;  the  win¬ 
dows,  however,  in  common  with  those  of  every  other 
room  in  the*  house,  were  boarded  up  inside,  in  order 
that,  out-of-doors,  all  might  appear  quite  dark. 

They  laid  him  on  a  sofa  in  this  chamber,  perfect¬ 
ly  insensible;  but  John  immediately  fetching  a  sur¬ 
geon  who  took  from  him  a  large  quantity  of  blood, 
he  gradually  came  to  himself.  As  he  was,  for  the 
time,  too  weak  to  walk,  they  had  no  difficulty  in 
persuading  him  to  remain  there  all  night,  and  got 
him  to  bed  without  loss  of  a  minute.  That  done, 
they  gave  him  cordial  and  some  toast,  and  present¬ 
ly  a  pretty  strong  composing  draught,  under  the  in¬ 
fluence  of  which  he  soon  fell  into  a  lethargy,  and, 
for  a  time,  forgot  his  troubles. 

The  vintner,  who  was  a  very  hearty  old  fellow 
and  a  worthy  man,  had  no  thoughts  of  going  to 
bed  himself,  for  he  had  received  several  threatening 
warnings  from  the  rioters,  and  had  indeed  gone  out 
that  evening  to  try  and  gather  from  the  conversa¬ 
tion  of  the  mob  whether  his  house  was  to  be  the 
next  attacked.  He  sat  all  night  in  an  easy-chair  in 
the  same  room — dozing  a  little  now  and  then — and 
received  from  time  to  time  the  reports  of  John  Grue¬ 
by  and  two  or  three  other  trustworthy  persons  in 
his  employ,  who  went  out  into  the  streets  as  scouts ; 
and  for  whose  entertainment  an  ample  allowance 
of  good  cheer  (which  the  old  vintner,  despite  his 
anxiety,  now  and  then  attacked  himself)  was  set 
forth  in  an  adjoining  chamber. 

These  accounts  were  of  a  sufficiently  alarming 
nature  from  the  first;  but  as  the  night  wore  on, 
they  grew  so  much  worse,  and  involved  such  a  fear¬ 
ful  amount  of  riot  and  destruction,  that  in  compar¬ 
ison  with  these  new  tidings  all  the  previous  disturb¬ 
ances  sunk  to  nothing. 

The  first  intelligence  that  came  was  of  the  taking 
of  Newgate,  and  the  escape  of  all  the  prisoners,  whose 
track,  as  they  made  up  Holborn  and  into  the  adjacent 
streets,  was  proclaimed  to  those  citizens  who  were 


shut  up  in  their  houses,  by  the  rattling  of  their  chains, 
which  formed  a  dismal  concert,  and  was  heard  in  ev¬ 
ery  direction,  as  though  so  many  forges  were  at  work. 
The  flames,  too,  shone  so  brightly  through  the  vint¬ 
ner’s  sky-lights,  that  the  rooms  and  staircases  below 
were  nearly  as  light  as  in  broad  day ;  while  the  dis¬ 
tant  shouting  of  the  mob  seemed  to  shake  the  very 
walls  and  ceilings. 

At  length  they  were  heard  approaching  the  house, 
and  some  minutes  of  terrible  anxiety  ensued.  They 
came  close  up,  and  stopped  before  it ;  but  after  giv¬ 
ing  three  loud  yells,  wrent  on.  And  although  they  re¬ 
turned  several  times  that  night,  creating  new  alarms 
each  time,  they  did  nothing  there,  having  their  bauds 
full.  Shortly  after  they  had  gone  away  for  the  first 
time,  one  of  the  scouts  came  running  in  with  the  news 
that  they  had  stopped  before  Lord  Mansfield’s  house 
in  Bloomsbury  Square. 

Soon  afterward  there  came  another,  and  another, 
and  then  the  first  returned  again,  and  so,  by  little 
and  little,  their  tale  was  this :  That  the  mob  gather¬ 
ing  round  Lord  Mansfield’s  house,  had  called  on  those 
wfithin  to  open  the  door,  aud  receiving  no  reply  (for 
Lord  and  Lady  Mansfield  were  at  that  moment  es¬ 
caping  by  the  back  way),  forced  an  entrance  accord¬ 
ing  to  their  usual  custom.  That  they  then  began  to 
demolish  the  house  with  great  fury,  and  setting  fire 
to  it  in  several  parts,  involved  in  a  common  ruin  the 
whole  of  the  costly  furniture,  the  plate  and  jewels,  a 
beautiful  gallery  of  pictures,  the  rarest  collection  of 
manuscripts  ever  possessed  by  any  one  private  per¬ 
son  in  the  world,  and  worse  than  all,  because  noth¬ 
ing  could  replace  this  loss,  the  great  Law  Library, 
on  almost  every  page  of  which  were  notes  in  the 
Judge’s  own  hand,  of  inestimable  value — being  the 
results  of  the  study  and  experience  of  his  whole  life. 
That  while  they  were  howling  and  exulting  round 
the  fire,  a  troop  of  soldiers,  with  a  magistrate  among 
them,  came  up,  and  being  too  late  (for  the  mischief 
was  by  that  time  done),  began  to  disperse  the  crowd. 
That  the  Riot  Act  being  read,  and  the  crowd  still 
resisting,  the  soldiers  received  orders  to  fire,  and  lev¬ 
eling  their  muskets  shot  dead  at  the  first  discharge 
six  men  and  a  woman,  and  wounded  many  persons ; 
and  loading  again  directly,  fired  another  volley,  but 
over  the  people’s  heads,  it  was  supposed,  as  none 
were  seen  to  fall.  That  thereupon,  and  daunted  by 
the  shrieks  and  tumult,  the  crowd  began  to  disperse, 
and  the  soldiers  went  away,  leaving  the  killed  aud 
wounded  on  the  ground  :  which  they  had  no  sooner 
done  than  the  rioters  came  back  again,  and  taking 
up  the  dead  bodies,  and  the  wounded  people,  formed 
into  a  rude  procession,  having  the  bodies  in  the 
front.  That  in  this  order  they  paraded  off  with  a 
horrible  merriment;  fixing  weapons  in  the  dead 
men’s  hands  to  make  them  look  as  if  alive ;  and  pre¬ 
ceded  by  a  fellow  ringing  Lord  Mansfield’s  dinner- 
bell  with  all  his  might. 

The  scouts  reported  further,  that  this  party  meet¬ 
ing  with  some  others  who  had  been  at  similar  work 
elsewhere,  they  all  united  into  one,  and  drafting  off 
a  few  men  with  the  killed  and  wounded,  marched 
away  to  Lord  Mansfield’s  country-seat  at  Caen  Wood, 
between  Hampstead  and  Highgate,  bent  upon  de¬ 
stroying  that  house  likewise,  and  lighting  up  a  great 
fire  there,  which  from  that  height  should  be  seen  all 


THE  RIOTS  AT  THEIR  HEIGHT. 


215 


over  London.  But  in  this  they  were  disappointed; 
for  a  party  of  horse  having  arrived  before  them,  they 
retreated  faster  than  they  went,  and  came  straight 
back  to  town. 

There  being  now  a  great  many  parties  in  the 
streets,  each  went  to  .work  according  to  its  humor, 
and  a  dozen  houses  were  quickly  blazing,  including 
those  of  Sir  John  Fielding  and  two  other  justices, 
and  four  in  Holborn — one  of  the  greatest  thorough¬ 
fares  in  London  —  which  were  all  burning  at  the 
same  time,  and  burned  until  they  went  out  of  them¬ 
selves,  for  the  people  cut  the  engine  hose,  and  would 
not  suffer  the  firemen  to  play  upon  the  flames.  At 
one  house  near  Moorfields,  they  found  in  one  of  the 
rooms  some  canary  birds  in  cages,  and  these  they 
cast  into  the  fire  alive.  The  poor  little  creatures 
screamed,  it  was  said,  like  infants,  when  they  were 
flung  upon  the  blaze ;  and  one  man  was  so  touched 
that  he  tried  in  vain  to  save  them,  which  roused  the 
indignation  of  the  crowd,  and  nearly  cost  him  his 
life. 

At  this  same  house,  one  of  the  fellows  who  went 
through  the  rooms,  breaking  the  furniture  and  help¬ 
ing  to  destroy  the  building,  found  a  child’s  doll — a 
poor  toy — which  he  exhibited  at  the  window  to  the 
mob  below,  as  the  image  of  some  unholy  saint  which 
the  late  occupants  had  worshiped.  While  he  was 
doing  this,  another  man  with  an  equally  tender  con¬ 
science  (they  had  both  been  foremost  in  throwing 
down  the  canary  birds  for  roasting  alive),  took  his 
seat  on  the  parapet  of  the  house,  and  harangued  the 
crowd  from  a  pamphlet  circulated  by  the  Associa¬ 
tion,  relative  to  the  true  principles  of  Christianity! 
Meanwhile  the  Lord  Mayor,  with  his  hands  in  his 
pockets,  looked  on  as  an  idle  man  might  look  at  any 
other  show  and  seem  mightily  satisfied  to  have  got 
a  good  place. 

Such  were  the  accounts  brought  to  the  old  vintner 
by  his  servants  as  he  sat  at  the  side  of  Mr.  Haredale’s 
bed,  having  been  unable  even  to  doze,  after  the  first 
part  of  the  night ;  too  much  disturbed  by  his  own 
fears ;  by  the  cries  of  the  mob,  the  light  of  the  tires, 
and  the  firing  of  the  soldiers.  Such,  with  the  addi¬ 
tion  of  the  release  of  all  the  prisoners  in  the  New 
Jail  at  Clerkenwell,  and  as  many  robberies  of  pas¬ 
sengers  in  the  streets  as  the  crowd  had  leisure  to 
indulge  in,  were  the  scenes  of  which  Mr.  Haredale 
was  happily  unconscious,  and  which  were  all  enact¬ 
ed  before  midnight. 

-  -  -  ■ 

CHAPTER  LXVII. 

WHEN  darkness  broke  away  and  morning  began 
to  dawn,  the  town  wore  a  strange  aspect  in¬ 
deed. 

Sleep  had  hardly  been  thought  of  all  night.  The 
general  alarm  was  so  apparent  in  the  faces  of  the 
inhabitants,  and  its  expression  was  so  aggravated 
by  want  of  rest  (few  persons,  with  any  property  to 
lose,  having  dared  go  to  bed  since  Monday),  that  a 
stranger  coming  into  the  streets  would  have  sup¬ 
posed  some  mortal  pest  or  plague  to  have  been  ra¬ 
ging.  In  place  of  the  usual  cheerfulness  and  anima¬ 
tion  of  morning,  every  thing  was  dead  and  silent. 


The  shops  remained  Enclosed,  offices  and  warehouses 
were  shut,  the  coach  and  chair  stands  were  desert¬ 
ed,  no  carts  or  wagons  rumbled  through  the  slowly 
waking  streets,  the  early  cries  were  all  hushed;  a 
universal  gloom  prevailed.  Great  numbers  of  peo¬ 
ple  were  out,  even  at  day-break,  but  they  flitted  to 
and  fro  as  though  they  shrank  from  the  sound  of 
their  own  footsteps ;  the  public  ways  were  haunted 
rather  than  frequented;  and  round  the  smoking 
ruins  people  stood  apart  from  one  another  and  in 
silence,  not  venturing  to  condemn  the  rioters,  or  to 
be  supposed  to  do  so,  even  in  whispers. 

At  the  Lord  President’s  in  Piccadilly,  at  Lambeth 
Palace,  at  the  Lord  Chancellor’s  in  Great  Ormond 
Street,  in  the  Royal  Exchange,  the  Bank,  the  Guild¬ 
hall,  the  Inns  of  Court,  the  Courts  of  Law,  and  every 
chamber  fronting  the  streets  near  Westminster  Hall 
and  the  Houses  of  Parliament,  parties  of  soldiers 
were  posted  before  daylight.  *1  body  of  Horse 
Guards  paraded  Palace -yard;  an  encampment  was 
formed  in  the  Park,  where  fifteen  hundred  men  and 
five  battalions  of  Militia  were  under  arms;,  the 
Tower  was  fortified,  the  draw-bridges  were  raised, 
the  cannon  loaded  and  pointed,  and  two  regiments 
of  artillery  busied  in  strengthening  the  fortress  and 
preparing  it  for  defense.  A  numerous  detachment 
of  soldiers  were  stationed  to  keep  guard  at  the  New 
River  Head,  which  the  people  had  threatened  to  at¬ 
tack,  and  where,  it  was  said,  they  meant  to  cut  off 
the  main  pipes,  so  that  there  might  be  no  water  for 
the  extinction  of  the  flames.  In  the  Poultry  and  on 
Cornhill,  and  at  several  other  leading  points,  iron 
chains  were  drawn  across  the  street;  parties  of 
soldiers  were  distributed  in  some  of  the  old  city 
churches  while  it  was  yet  dark;  and  in  several 
private  houses  (among  them  Lord  Rockingham’s,  in 
'  Grosvenor  Square),  which  were  blockaded  as  though 
to  sustain  a  siege,  and  had  guns  pointed  from  the 
windows.  When  the  sun  rose,  it  shone  into  hand¬ 
some  apartments  filled  with  armed  men ;  the  furni¬ 
ture  hastily  heaped  away  in  corners,  and  made  of 
little  or  no  account,  in  the  terror  of  the  time — on 
arms  glittering  in  city  chambers,  among  desks  and 
stools,  and  dusty  books— into  little  smoky  church¬ 
yards  in  odd  lanes  and  by-ways,  with  soldiers  lying 
down  among  the  tombs,  or  lounging  under  the  shade 
of  the  one  old  tree,  and  their  pile  of  muskets  spark¬ 
ling  in  the  light — on  solitary  sentries  pacing  up  and 
down  in  court-yards,  silent  now,  but  yesterday  re¬ 
sounding  with  the  din  and  hum  of  business — every¬ 
where  on  guard-rooms,  garrisons,  and  threatening 
preparations. 

As  the  day  crept  on,  still  more  unusual  sights  were 
witnessed  in  the  streets.  The  gates  of  the  King’s 
Bench  and  Fleet  Prisons  being  opened  at  the  usual 
hour,  were  found  to  have  notices  affixed  to  them,  an¬ 
nouncing  that  the  rioters  would  come  that  night  to 
burn  them  down.  The  wardens,  too  well  knowing 
the  likelihood  there  was  of  this  promise  being  ful¬ 
filled,  were  fain  to  set  their  prisoners  at  liberty,  and 
give  them  leave  to  move  their  goods ;  so,  all  day, 
such  of  them  as  had  any  furniture  were  occupied  in 
conveying  it,  some  to  this  place,  some  to  that,  and 
not  a  few  to  the  brokers’  shops,  where  they  gladly 
sold  it,  for  any  wretched  price  those  gentry  chose  to 
give.  There  were  some  broken  men  among  these 


216 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


debtors  who  bad  been  in  jail  "So  long,  and  were  so 
miserable  and  destitute  of  friends,  so  dead  to  the 
world,  and  utterly  forgotten  and  uncared  for,  that 
they  implored  their  jailers  not  to  set  them  free,  and 
to  send  them,  if  need  were,  to  some  other  place  of 
custody.  But  they,  refusing  to  comply,  lest  they 
should  incur  the  anger  of  the  mob,  turned  them  into 
the  streets,  where  they  wandered  up  and  down  hard¬ 
ly  remembering  the  ways  untrodden  by  their  feet  so 
long,  and  crying — such  abject  things  those  rotten- 
hearted  jails  had  made  them — as  they  slunk  off  in 
their  rags,  and  dragged  their  slipshod  feet  along  the 
pavement. 

Even  of  the  three  hundred  prisoners  who  had  es¬ 
caped  from  Newgate,  there  were  some — a  few,  but 
there  were  some — who  sought  their  jailers  out  and 
delivered  themselves  up,  preferring  imprisonment 
and  punishment  to  the  horrors  of  such  another  night 
as  the  last.  Many  of  the  convicts,  drawn  back  to 
their  old  place  of  captivity  by  some  indescribable 
attraction,  or  by  a  desire  to  exult  over  it  in  its 
downfall  and  glut  their  revenge  by  seeing  it  in  ash¬ 
es,  actually  went  back  in  broad  noon,  and  loitered 
about  the  cells.  Fifty  were  retaken  at  one  time  on 
this  next  day,  within  the  prison  walls;  but  their 
fate  did  not  deter  others,  for  there  they  went  in 
spite  of  every  thing,  and  there  they  were  taken  in 
twos  and  threes,  twice  or  thrice  a  day,  all  through 
the  week.*  Of  the  fifty  just  mentioned,  some  were 
occupied  in  endeavoring  to  rekindle  the  fire ;  but  in 
general  they  seemed  to  have  no  object  in  view  but 
to  prowl  and  lounge  about  the  old  place :  being  often 
found  asleep  in  the  ruins,  or  sitting  talking  there,  or 
even  eating  and  drinking,  as  in  a  choice  retreat. 

Besides  the  notices  on  the  gates  of  the  Fleet  and 
the  King’s  Bench,  many  similar  announcements  were 
left,  before  one  o’clock  at  noon,  at  the  houses  of  pri¬ 
vate  individuals!  and  further,  the  mob  proclaimed 
their  intention  of  seizing  on  the  Bank,  the  Mint,  the 
Arsenal  at  Woolwich,  and  the  Royal  Palaces.  The 
notices  were  seldom  delivered  by  more  than  one 
man,  who,  if  it  were  at  a  shop,  went  in,  and  laid  it, 
with  a  bloody  threat  perhaps,  upon  the  counter ;  or 
if  it  were  at  a  private  house,  kuocked  at  the  door, 
and  thrust  it  in  the  servant’s  hand.  Notwithstand¬ 
ing  the  presence  of  the  military  in  every  quarter  of 
the  town,  and  the  great  force  in  the  Park,  these  mes¬ 
sengers  did  their  errands  with  impunity  all  through 
the  day.  So  did  two  boys  who  went  down  Holborn 
alone,  armed  with  bars  taken  from  the  railings  of 
Lord  Mansfield’s  house,  and  demanded  money  for  the 
rioters.  So  did  a  tall  man  on  horseback  who  made 
a  collection  for  the  same  purpose  in  Fleet  Street,  and 
refused  to  take  any  thing  but  gold. 

A  rumor  had  now  got  into  circulation,  too,  which 
diffused  a  greater  dread  all  through  London,  even 
than  these  publicly  aunounced  intentions  of  the  ri¬ 
oters,  though  all  men  knew  that  if  they  were  suc¬ 
cessfully  effected,  there  must  ensue  a  national  bank¬ 
ruptcy  and  general  ruin.  It  was  said  that  they 
meant  to  throw  the  gates  of  Bedlam  open,  and  let 
all  the  madmen  loose.  This  suggested  such  dread¬ 
ful  images  to  the  people’s  minds,  and  was  indeed  an 
act  so  fraught  with  new  and  unimaginable  horrors 
in  the  contemplation,  that  it  beset  them  more  than 
any  loss  or  cruelty  of  which  they  could  foresee  the 


worst,  and  drove  many  sane  men  nearly  mad  them¬ 
selves. 

So  the  day  passed  on  :  the  prisoners  moving  their 
goods ;  people  running  to  and  fro  in  the  streets,  car¬ 
rying  away  their  property;  groups  standing  in  si¬ 
lence  round  the  ruins ;  all  business  suspended ;  and 
the  soldiers  disposed  as  has  been  already  mentioned, 
remaining  quite  inactive.  So  the  day  passed  on,  and 
dreaded  night  drew  near  again. 

At  last,  at  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening,  the  Privy 
Council  issued  a  solemn  proclamation  that  it  was 
now  necessary  to  employ  the  military,  and  that  the 
officers  had  most  direct  and  effectual  orders,  by  an 
immediate  exertion  of  their  utmost  force,  to  repress 
the  disturbances ;  and  warning  all  good  subjects  of 
the  King  to  keep  themselves,  their  servants,  and  ap¬ 
prentices,  within  doors  that  night.  There  was  then 
delivered  out  to  every  soldier  on  duty,  thirty -six 
rounds  of  powder  and  ball ;  the  drums  beat ;  and  the 
whole  force  was  under  arms  at  sunset. 

The  City  authorities,  stimulated  by  these  vigorous 
measures,  held  a  Common  Council;  passed  a  vote 
thanking  the  military  associations  who  had  ten¬ 
dered  their  aid  to  the  civil  authorities;  accepted 
it;  and  placed  them  under  the  direction  of  the  two 
sheriffs.  At  the  Queen’s  palace,  a  double  guard,  the 
yeomen  on  duty,  the  groom-porters,  and  all  other  at¬ 
tendants,  were  stationed  in  the  passages  and  on  the 
staircases  at  seven  o’clock,  with  strict  instructions 
to  be  watchful  on  their  posts  all  night ;  and  all  the 
doors  were  locked.  The  gentlemen  of  the  Temple, 
and  the  other  Inns,  mounted  guard  within  their  gates, 
and  strengthened  them  with  the  great  stones  of  the 
pavement,  which  they  took  up  for  the  purpose.  In 
Lincoln’s  Inn,  they  gave  up  the  hall  and  commons 
to  the  Northumberland  Militia,  under  the  command 
of  Lord  Algernon  Percy ;  in  some  few  of  the  city 
wards,  the  burgesses  turned  out,  and  without  mak¬ 
ing  a  very  fierce  show,  looked  brave  enough.  Some 
hundreds  of  stout  gentlemen  threw  themselves,  arm¬ 
ed  to  the  teeth,  into  the  halls  of  the  different  com¬ 
panies,  double-locked  and  bolted  all  the  gates,  and 
dared  the  rioters  (among  themselves)  to  come  on  at 
their  peril.  These  arrangements  being  all  made  sim¬ 
ultaneously,  or  nearly  so,  were  completed  by  the  time 
it  got  dark ;  and  then  the  streets  were  comparative¬ 
ly  clear,  and  were  guarded  at  all  the  great  corners 
and  chief  avenues  by  the  troops :  while  parties  of 
the  officers  rode  up  and  down  in  all  directions,  or¬ 
dering  chance  stragglers  home,  and  admonishing  the 
residents  to  keep  within  their  houses,  and,  if  any 
firing  ensued,  not  to  approach  the  windows.  More 
chains  were  drawn  across  such  of  the  thoroughfares 
as  were  of  a  nature  to  favor  the  approach  of  a  great 
crowd,  and  at  each  of  these  points  a  considerable 
force  was  stationed.  All  these  precautions  having 
been  taken,  and  it  being  now  quite  dark,  those  in 
command  awaited  the  result  in  some  anxiety:  and 
not  without  a  hope  that  such  vigilant  demonstra¬ 
tions  might  of  themselves  dishearten  the  populace, 
and  prevent  any  new  outrages. 

But  in  this  reckoning  they  were  cruelly  mistaken, 
for  in  half  an  hour,  or  less,  as  though  the  setting  in 
of  night  had  been  their  preconcerted  signal,  the  riot¬ 
ers  having  previously,  in  small  parties,  prevented  the 
lighting  of  the  street-lamps,  rose  like  a  great  sea; 


HUGH  FOREMOST. 


217 


mid  that  in  so  many  places  at  once,  and  with  such 
inconceivable  fury,  that  those  who  had  the  direction 
of  the  troops  knew  not,  at  first,  where  to  turn  or 
what  to  do.  One  after  another,  new  fires  blazed  up 
in  every  quarter  of  the  town,  as  though  it  were  the 
intention  of  the  insurgents  to  wrap  the  city  in  a  cir¬ 
cle  of  flames,  which,  contracting  by  degrees,  should 
burn  the  whole  to  ashes;  the  crowd  swarmed  and 
roared  in  every  street ;  and  none  but  rioters  and  sol¬ 
diers  beiug  out-of-doors,  it  seemed  to  the  latter  as 
if  all  Loudon  were  arrayed  against  them,  and  they 
stood  alone  against  the  town. 

In  two  hours,  six-and- thirty  fires  were  raging — 
six-and-thirty  great  conflagrations.  Among  them 
the  Borough  Clink  in  Tooley  Street,  the  King’s 
Bench,  the  Fleet,  and  the  New  Bridewell.  In  al¬ 
most  every  street,  there  was  a  battle ;  and  in  every 
quarter  the  muskets  of  the  troops  were  heard  above 
the  shouts  and  tumult  *of  the  mob.  The  firing  be¬ 
gan  in  the  Poultry,  where  the  chain  was  drawn 
across  the  road,  where  nearly  a  score  of  people  were 
killed  on  the  first  discharge.  Their  bodies  having 
been  hastily  carried  into  St.  Mildred’s  Church  by 
the  soldiers,  the  latter  fired  again,  and  following  fast 
upon  the  crowd,  who  began  to  give  way  when  they 
saw  the  execution  that  was  done,  formed  across 
Cheapside,  and  charged  them  at  the  point  of  the 
bayonet. 

The  streets  were  now  a  dreadful  spectacle.  The 
shouts  of  the  rabble,  the  shrieks  of  women,  the  cries 
of  the  wounded,  and  the  constant  firing,  formed  a 
deafening  and  an  awful  accompaniment  to  the  sights 
which  every  corner  presented.  Wherever  the  road 
was  obstructed  by  the  chains,  there  the  fighting  and 
the  loss  of  life  were  greatest ;  but  there  was  hot 
work  and  bloodshed  in  almost  every  leading  thor¬ 
oughfare. 

At  Holborn  Bridge,  and  on  Holborn  Hill,  the  con¬ 
fusion  was  greater  than  in  any  other  part ;  for  the 
crowd  that  poured  out  of  the  city  in  two  great 
streams,  one  by  Ludgate  Hill,  and  one  by  Newgate 
Street,  united  at  that  spot,  and  formed  a  mass  so 
dense,  that  at  every  volley  the  people  seemed  to  fall 
in  heaps.  At  this  place  a  large  detachment  of  sol¬ 
diery  were  posted,  who  fired,  now  up  Fleet  Market, 
now  up  Holborn,  now  up  Snow  Hill  —  constantly 
raking  the  streets  in  each  direction.  At  this  place 
too,  several  large  fires  were  burning,  so  that  all  the 
terrors  of  that  terrible  night  seemed  to  be  concen¬ 
trated  in  one  spot. 

Full  twenty  times,  the  rioters,  headed  by  one  man 
who  wielded  an  axe  in  his  right  hand,  and  bestrode 
a  brewer’s  horse  of  great  size  and  strength,  capar¬ 
isoned  with  fetters  taken  out  of  Newgate,  which 
clanked  and  jingled  as  he  went,  made  an  attempt  to 
force  a  passage  at  this  point,  and  fire  the  vintner’s 
house.  Full  twenty  times  they  were  repulsed  with 
loss  of  life,  aud  still  came  back  again ;  and  though 
the  fellow  at  their  head  was  marked  and  singled 
out  by  all,  and  was  a  conspicuous  object  as  the  only 
rioter  on  horseback,  not  a  man  could  hit  him.  So 
surely  as  the  smoke  cleared  away,  so  surely  there 
was  he ;  calling  hoarsely  to  his  companions,  bran¬ 
dishing  his  axe  above  his  head,  and  dashing  on  as 
though  he  bore  a  charmed  life,  and  was  proof  against 
ball  and  powder 


This  man  was  Hugh ;  and  in  every  part  of  the 
riot  he  was  seen.  He  headed  two  attacks  upon  the 
Bank,  helped  to  break  open  the  Toll-houses  on  Black- 
friars  Bridge,  and  cast  the  money  into  the  street; 
fired  two  of  the  prisons  with  his  own  hand ;  was 
here,  and  there,  and  everywhere — always  foremost 
— always  active — striking  at  the  soldiers,  cheering 
on  the  crowd,  making  his  horse’s  iron  music  heard 
through  all  the  yell  and  uproar;  but  never  hurt 
or  stopped.  Turn  him  at  one  place,  and  he  made 
a  new  struggle  in  another;  force  him  to  retreat 
at  this  point,  and  he  advanced  on  that,  directly. 
Driven  from  Holborn  for  the  twentieth  time,  he  rode 
at  the  head  of  a  great  crowd  straight  upon  Saint 
Paul’s,  attacked  a  guard  of  soldiers  who  kept  watch 
over  a  body  of  prisoners  within  the  iron  railings, 
forced  them  to  retreat,  rescued  the  men  they  had  in 
custody,  aud  with  this  accession  to  his  party,  came 
back  again,  mad  with  liquor  and  excitement,  and 
hallooing  them  on  like  a  demon. 

It  would  have  been  no  easy  task  for  the  most  care¬ 
ful  rider  to  sit  a  Horse  in  the  midst  of  such  a  throng 
and  tumult;  for  though  this  madman  rolled  upon 
his  back  (he  had  no  saddle)  like  a  boat  upon  the 
sea,  he  never  for  an  instant  lost  his  seat,  or  failed 
to  guide  him  where  he  would.  Through  the  very 
thickest  of  the  press,  over  dead  bodies  and  burning 
fragments,  now  on  the  pavement,  now  in  the  road, 
now  riding  up  a  flight  of  steps  to  make' himself  the 
more  conspicuous  to  his  party,  and  now  forcing  a 
passage  through  a  mass  of  human  beings,  so  closely 
squeezed  together  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  edge  of 
a  knife  would  scarcely  part  them — on  he  went,  as 
though  he  could  surmount  all  obstacles  by  the  mere 
exercise  of  his  will.  And  perhaps  his  not  being  shot 
was  in  some  degree  attributable  to  this  very  circum¬ 
stance  ;  for  his  extreme  audacity,  and  the  conviction 
that  he  must  be  one  of  those  to  whom  the  proclama¬ 
tion  referred,  inspired  the  soldiers  with  a  desire  to 
take  him  alive,  and  diverted  many  an  aim  which 
otherwise  might  have  been  more  near  the  mark. 

The  vintner  and  Mr.  Haredale,  unable  to  sit  quiet¬ 
ly  listening  to  the  noise  without  seeing  what  went 
on,  had  climbed  to  the  roof  of  the  house,  and  hiding 
behind  a  stack  of  chimneys,  were  looking  cautious¬ 
ly  down  into  the  street,  almost  hoping  that  after  so 
many  repulses  the  rioters  would  be  foiled,  when  a 
great  shout  proclaimed  that  a  party  were  coming 
round  the  other  way ;  and  the  dismal  jingling  of 
those  accursed  fetters  warned  them  next  moment 
that  they  too  were  led  by  Hugh.  The  soldiers  had 
advanced  into  Fleet  Market  and  were  dispersing  the 
people  there  ;  so  that  they  came  on  with  hardly  any 
check,  and  were  soon  before  the  house. 

“All’s  over  now,”  said  the  vintner.  “Fifty  thou¬ 
sand  pounds  will  be  scattered  in  a  minute.  We 
must  save  ourselves.  We  can  do  no  more,  and  shall 
have  reason  to  be  thankful  if  we  do  as  much.” 

Their  first  impulse  was  to  clamber  along  the  roofs 
of  the  houses,  and,  knocking  at  some  garret  window 
for  admission,  pass  down  that  way  into  the  street, 
and  so  escape.  But  another  fierce  cry  from  below, 
and  a  general  upturning  of  the  faces  of  the  crowd, 
apprised  them  that  they  were  discovered,  and  even 
that  Mr.  Haredale  was  recognized ;  for  Hugh,  seeing 
him  plainly  in  the  bright  glare  of  the  fire,  which  in 


218 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


that  part  made  it  as  light  as  day,  called  to  him  by 
his  name,  and  swore  to  have  his  life. 

“  Leave  me  here,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  and  in  Heav¬ 
en’s  name,  my  good  friend,  save  yourself!  Come 
on,”  he  muttered,  as  he  turned  toward  Hugh  and 
faced  him  without  any  further  elfort  at  conceal¬ 
ment  :  “  this  roof  is  high,  and  if  we  close,  we  will 
die  together !” 

“  Madness,”  said  the  honest  vintner,  pulling  him 
back,  “  sheer  madness.  Hear  reason,  sir.  My  good 
sir,  hear  reason.  I  could  never  make  myself  heard 
by  knockiug  at  a  window  now ;  and  even  if  I  could, 
no  one  would  be  bold  enough  to  connive  at  my  es¬ 
cape.  Through  the  cellars,  there’s  a  kind  of  pas¬ 
sage  into  the  back  street  by  which  we  roll  casks  in 
and  out.  We  shall  have  time  to  get  down  there  be¬ 
fore  they  can  force  an  entry.  Do  not  delay  an  in¬ 
stant,  but  come  with  me — for  both  our  sakes — for 
mine — my  dear  good  sir !” 

As  he  spoke,  and  drew  Mr.  Haredale  back,  they 
had  both  a  glimpse  of  the  street.  It  was  but  a 
glimpse,  but  it  showed  them  the1  crowd,  gathering 
and  clustering  round  the  house :  some  of  the  armed 
men  pressing  to  the  front  to  break  down  the  doors 
and  windows,  some  bringing  brands  from  the  nearest 
fire,  some  with  lifted  faces  following  their  course 
upon  the  roof  and  pointing  them  out  to  their  com¬ 
panions  :  all  raging  and  roaring  like  the  flames  they 
lighted  up.  They  saw  some  men  thirsting  for  the 
treasures  of  strong  liquor  which  they  knew  were 
stored  within  ;  they  saw  others,  who  had  been  wound¬ 
ed,  sinking  down  into  the  opposite  door-ways  and 
dying,  solitary  wretches,  in  the  midst  of  all  the  vast 
assemblage ;  here,  a  frightened  woman  trying  to  es¬ 
cape  ;  and  there  a  lost  child ;  and  there  a  drunken 
ruffian,  unconscious  of  the  death-wound  on  his  head, 
raving  and  fighting  to  the  last.  All  these  things, 
and  even  such  trivial  incidents  as  a  man  with  his 
hat  off,  or  turning  round,  or  stooping  down,  or  shak¬ 
ing  hands  with  another,  they  marked  distinctly ;  yet 
iu  a  glance  so  brief,  that,  in  the  act  of  stepping  back, 
they  lost  the  whole,  and  saw  but  the  pale  faces  of 
each  other,  and  the  red  sky  above  them. 

Mr.  Haredale  yielded  to  the  entreaties  of  his  com¬ 
panion —  more  because  he  was  resolved  to  defend 
him,  than  for  any  thought  he  had  of  his  own  life, 
or  any  care  he  entertained  for  his  own  safety — and 
quickly  re-entering  the  house,  they  descended  the 
stairs  together.  Loud  blows  were  thundering  on 
the  shutters,  crowbars  were  already  thrust  beneath 
the  door,  the  glass  fell  from  the  sashes,  a  deep  light 
shone  through  every  crevice,  and  they  heard  the 
voices  of  the  foremost  in  the  crowd  so  close  to  every 
chink  and  key-hole,  that  they  seemed  to  be  hoarsely 
whispering  their  threats  into  their  very  ears.  They 
had  but  a  moment  reached  the  bottom  of  the  cellar 
steps  and  shut  the  door  behind  them,  when  the  mob 
broke  in. 

The  vaults  were  profoundly  dark,  and  having  no 
torch  or  candle — for  they  had  been  afraid  to  carry 
one,  lest  it  should  betray  their  place  of  refuge — they 
were  obliged  to  grope  with  their  hands.  But  they 
were  not  long  without  light,  for  they  had  not  gone 
far  when  they  heard  the  crowd  forcing  the  door; 
aud,  looking  back  among  the  low-arched  passages, 
could  see  them  in  the  distance,  hurrying  to  and  fro 


with  flashing  links,  broaching  the  casks,  staving  the 
great  vats,  turning  off  upon  the  right  hand  and  the 
left,  into  the  different  cellars,  and  lying  down  to 
drink  at  the  channels  of  strong  spirits  which  were 
already  flowing  on  the  ground. 

They  hurried  on  not  the  less  quickly  for  this ;  and 
had  reached  the  only  vault  which  lay  between  them 
and  the  passage  out,  when  suddenly,  from  the  direc¬ 
tion  in  which  they  were  going,  a  strong  light  gleam¬ 
ed  upon  their  faces ;  and  before  they  could  slip  aside, 
or  turn  back,  or  hide  themselves,  two  men  (one  bear¬ 
ing  a  torch)  came  upon  them,  and  cried  in  an  aston¬ 
ished  whisper,  “  Here  they  are !” 

At  the  same  instant  they  pulled  off  what  they 
wore  upon  their  heads.  Mr.  Haredale  saw  before 
him  Edward  Chester,  and  then  saw,  when  the  vint¬ 
ner  gasped  his  name,  Joe  Willet. 

Ay,  the  same  Joe,  though  with  an  arm  the  less, 
who  used  to  make  the  quarterly  journey  on  the  gray 
mare  to  pay  the  bill  to  the  purple -faced  vintner; 
aud  that  very  same  purple-faced  vintner,  formerly 
of  Thames  Street,  now  looked  him  in  the  face,  and 
challenged  him  by  name. 

“Give  me  your  hand,”  said  Joe,  softly,  taking  it 
whether  the  astonished  vintner  would  or  no.  “  Don’t 
fear  to  shake  it;  it’s  a  friendly  one,  and  a  hearty 
one,  though  it  has  no  fellow.  Why,  how  well  you 
look,  and  how  bluff  you  are !  And  you — God  bless 
you,  sir.  Take  heart,  take  heart.  We’ll  find  them. 
Be  of  good  cheer  ;  we  have  not  been  idle.” 

There  was  something  so  honest  and  frank  in  Joe’s 
speech,  that  Mr.  Haredale  put  his  hand  in  his  in¬ 
voluntarily,  though  their  meeting  was  suspicious 
enough.  But  his  glance  at  Edward  Chester,  and 
that  gentleman’s  keeping  aloof,  were  not  lost  upon 
Joe,  who  said  bluntly,  glancing  at  Edward  while  he 
spoke : 

“  Times  are  changed,  Mr.  Haredale,  and  times  have 
come  when  we  ought  to  know  friends  from  enemies, 
and  make  no  confusion  of  names.  Let  me  tell  you 
that  but  for  this  gentleman,  you  would  most  likely 
have  been  dead  by  this  time,  or  badly  wounded  at 
the  best.” 

“  What  do  you  say  ?”  cried  Mr.  Haredale. 

“I  say,”  said  Joe,  “first,  that  it  was  a  bold  thing 
to  be  in  the  crowd  at  all,  disguised  as  one  of  them ; 
though  I  won’t  say  much  about  that,  on  second 
thoughts,  for  that’s  my  case  too.  Secondly,  that  it 
was  a  brave  and  glorious  action — that’s  what  I  call 
it — to  strike  that  fellow  off  his  horse  before  their 
eyes !” 

“  What  fellow  ?  Whose  eyes  ?” 

“What  fellow,  sir!”  cried  Joe:  “a  fellow  who  has 
no  good-will  to  you,  and  who  has  the  daring  and 
devilry  in  him  of  twenty  fellows.  I  know  him 
of  old.  Once  in  the  house,  he  would  have  found 
you,  here  or  anywhere.  The  rest  owe  you  no  par¬ 
ticular  grudge,  and,  unless  they  see  you,  will  only 
think  of  drinking  themselves  dead.  But  we  lose 
time.  Are  you  ready  ?” 

“Quite,”  said  Edward.  “Put  out  the  torch,  Joe, 
and  go  on.  And  be  silent,  there’s  a  good  fellow.” 

“  Silent  or  not  silent,”  murmured  Joe,  as  he  drop¬ 
ped  the  flaring  link  Upon  the  ground,  crushed  it  with 
his  foot,  and  gave  his  hand  to  Mr.  Haredale,  “  it  was  a 
brave  and  glorious  action — no  man  can  alter  that.” 


BARNABY  AND  HIS  FATHER. 


219 


Both  Mr.  Haredale  and  the  worthy  vintner  were 
too  amazed  and  too  much  hurried  to  ask  any  fur¬ 
ther  questions,  so  followed  their  conductors  in  si¬ 
lence.  It  seemed,  from  a  short  whispering  which 
presently  ensued  between  them  and  the  vintner  rel¬ 
ative  to  the  best  way  of  escape,  that  they  had  enter¬ 
ed  by  the  back  door,  with  the  connivance  of  John 
Grueby,  who  watched  outside  with  the  key  in  his 
pocket,  and  whom  they  had  taken  into  their  confi¬ 
dence.  A  party  of  the  crowd  coming  up  that  way, 
just  as  they  entered,  John  had  double-locked  the 
door  again,  and  made  oif  for  the  soldiers,  so  that 
means  of  retreat  was  cut  olf  from  under  them. 

However,  as  the  front  door  had  been  forced,  and 
this  minor  crowd  being  anxious  to  get  at  the  liquor, 
had  no  fancy  for  losing  time  in  breaking  down  an¬ 
other,  but  had  goue  round  and  got  in  from  Holborn 
with  the  rest,  the  narrow  lane  in  the  rear  was  quite 
free  of  people.  So,  when  they  had  crawled  through 
the  passage  indicated  by  the  vintner  (which  was  a 
mere  shelving-trap  for  the  admission  of  casks),  and 
had  managed  with  some  difficulty  to  unchain  and 
raise  the  door  at  the  upper  end,  they  emerged  into 
the  street  without  being  observed  or  interrupted. 
Joe  still  holding  Mr.  Haredale  tight,  and  Edward 
taking  the  same  care  of  the  vintner,  they  hurried 
through  the  streets  at  a  rapid  pace ;  occasionally 
standing  aside  to  let  some  fugitives  go  by,  or  to  keep 
out  of  the  way  of  the  soldiers  who  followed  them, 
and  whose  questions,  when  they  halted  to  put  any, 
were  speedily  stopped  by  one  whispered  word  from 
Joe. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

WHILE  Newgate  was  burning  on  the  previous 
night,  Barnaby  and  his  father,  having  been 
passed  among  the  crowd  from  hand  to  hand,  stood 
in  Smithfield,  on  the  outskirts  of  the  mob,  gazing  at 
the  flames  like  men  who  had  been  suddenly  roused 
from  sleep.  Some  moments  elapsed  before  they  could 
distinctly  remember  where  they  were,  or  how  they 
got  there ;  or  recollected  that  while  they  were  stand¬ 
ing  idle  and  listless  spectators  of  the1  fire,  they  had 
tools  in  their  hands  which  had  been  hurriedly  given 
them  that  they  might  free  themselves  from  their 
fetters. 

Barnaby,  heavily  ironed  as  he  was,  if  he  had  obey¬ 
ed  his  first  impulse,  or  if  he  had  beeu  alone,  would 
have  made  his  way  back  to  the  side  of  Hugh,  who 
to  his  clouded  intellect  now  shone  forth  with  the 
new  lustre  of  being  his  preserver  and  truest  friend. 
But  his  father’s  terror  of  remaining  in  the  streets, 
communicated  itself  to  him  when  he  comprehended 
the  full  extent  of  his  fears,  and  impressed  him  with 
the  same  eagerness  to  fly  to  a  place  of  safety. 

In  a  corner  of  the  market  among  the  pens  for  cat¬ 
tle,  Barnaby  knelt  down,  and  pausing  every  now  and 
then  to  pass  his  hand  over  his  father’s  face,  or  look 
up  to  him  with  a  smile,  knocked  oft' his  irons.  When 
he  had  seen  him  spring,  a  free  man,  to  his  feet,  and 
had  given  vent  to  the  transport  of  delight  which  the 
sight  awakened,  he  went  to  work  upon  his  own, 
which  soon  fell  rattling  down  upon  the  ground,  and 
left  his  limbs  unfettered. 


Gliding  away  together  when  this  task  was  ac¬ 
complished,  and  passing  several  groups  of  men,  each 
gathered  round  a  stooping  figure  to  hide  him  from 
those  who  passed,  but  unable  to  repress  the  clank¬ 
ing  sound  of  hammers,  which  told  that  they  too 
were  busy  at  the  same  work  —  the  two  fugitives 
made  toward  Clerkenwell,  and  passing  thence  to  Is¬ 
lington,  as  the  nearest  point  of  egress,  were  quickly 
in  the  fields.  After  wandering  about  for  a  long  time, 
they  found  in  a  pasture  near  Finchley  a  poor  shed, 
with  walls  of  mud,  and  roof  of  grass  and  brambles, 
built  for  some  cowherd,  but  now  deserted.  Here 
they  lay  down  for  the  rest  of  the  night. 

They  wandered  to  and  fro  when  it  was  day,  and 
once  Barnaby  went  off  alone  to  a  cluster  of  little 
cottages  two  or  three  miles  away,  to  purchase  some 
bread  and  milk.  But  finding  no  better  shelter,  they 
returned  to  the  same  place,  and  lay  down  again  to 
wait  for  night. 

Heaven  alone  can  tell  with  what  vague  hopes  of 
duty  and  affection;  with  what  strange  promptings 
of  nature,  intelligible  to  him  as  to  a  man  of  radiant 
mind  and  most  enlarged  capacity ;  with  what  dim 
memories  of  children  he  had  played  with  when  a 
child  himself,  who  had  prattled  of  their  fathers,  and 
of  loving  them,  and  beiug  loved ;  with  how  many 
half-remembered,  dreamy  associations  of  his  moth¬ 
er’s  grief  and  tears  and  widowhood;  he  watched 
and  tended  this  man.  But  that  a  vague  and  shad¬ 
owy  crowd  of  such  ideas  came  slowly  on  him ;  that 
they  taught  him  to  be  sorry  when  he  looked  upon 
his  haggard  face ;  that  they  overflowed  his  eyes 
when  he  stooped  to  kiss  him ;  that  they  kept  him 
waking  in  a  tearful  gladness,  shading  him  from  the 
sun,  fauning  him  with  leaves,  soothing  him  when  he 
started  in  his  sleep — ah !  what  a  troubled  sleep  it 
was — and  wondering  when  she  would  come  to  join 
them  and  be  happy,  is  the  truth.  He  sat  beside  him 
all  that  day;  listening  for  her  footsteps  in  every 
breath  of  air,  looking  for  her  shadow  on  the  gently- 
waving  grass,  twining  the  hedge  flowers  for  her 
pleasure  when  she  came,  and  his  when  he  awoke ; 
and  stooping  down  from  time  to  time  to  listen  to 
his  mutterings,  and  wonder  why  he  was  so  restless 
in  that  quiet  place.  The  sun  went  down,  and  night 
came  on,  and  he  was  still  quite  tranquil ;  busied  with 
these  thoughts,  as  if  there  were  no  other  people  in 
the  world,  and  the  dull  cloud  of  smoke  hanging  on 
the  immense  city  in  the  distance,  hid  no  vices,  no 
crimes,  no  life  or  death,  or  cause  of  disquiet — noth¬ 
ing  but  clear  air. 

But  the  hour  had  now  come  when  he  must  go 
alone  to  find  out  the  blind  man  (a  task  that  filled 
him  with  delight),  and  bring  him  to  that  place; 
taking  especial  care  that  he  was  not  watched  or 
followed  on  his  way  back.  He  listened  to  the  di¬ 
rections  he  must  observe,  repeated  them  again  and 
again,  and  after  twice  or  thrice  returning  to  surprise 
his  father  with  a  light-hearted  laugh,  went  forth,  at 
last,  upon  his  errand ;  leaving  Grip,  whom  he  had 
carried  from  the  jail  in  his  arms,  to  his  care. 

Fleet  of  foot,  and  anxious  to  return,  he  sped  swift¬ 
ly  on  toward  the  city,  but  could  not  reach  it  before 
the  fires  began,  and  made  the  night  angry  with  their 
dismal  lustre.  When  he  entered  the  town — it  might 
be  that  he  was  changed,  by  going  there  without  his 


220 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


late  companions,  and  on  no  violent  errand ;  or  by  the 
beautiful  solitude  in  which  he  had  passed  the  day, 
or  by  the  thoughts  that  had  come  upon  him,  but  it 
seemed  peopled  by  a  legion  of  devils.  This  flight 
and  pursuit,  this  cruel  burning  aud  destroying,  these 
dreadful  cries  and  stunning  noises — were  they  the 
good  lord’s  noble  cause  ? 

Though  almost  stupefied  by  the  bewildering  scene, 
still  he  found  the  blind  man’s  house.  It  was  shut  up 
and  tenantless. 

He  waited  for  a  long  while,  but  no  one  came.  At 
last  he  withdrew ;  and  as  he  knew  by  this  time  that 
the  soldiers  were  firing,  and  many  people  must  have 
been  killed,  he  went  down  into  Holborn,  where  he 
heard  the  great  crowd  was,  to  try  if  he  could  find 
Hugh,  and  persuade  him  to  avoid  the  danger,  and 
return  with  him. 

If  he  had  been  stunned  and  shocked  before,  his 
horror  was  increased  a  thousand-fold  when  he  got 
into  this  vortex  of  the  riot,  and  not  being  an  actor 
in  the  terrible  spectacle,  had  it  all  before  his  eyes. 
But  there,  in  the  midst,  towering  above  them  all, 
close  before  the  house  they  were  attacking  now,  was 
Hugh  on  horseback,  calling  to  the  rest ! 

Sickened  by  the  sights  surrounding  him  on  every 
side,  and  by  the  heat  and  roar  aud  crash,  he  forced 
his  way  among  the  crowd  (where  many  recognized 
him,  and  with  shouts  pressed  back  to  let  him  pass), 
and  in  time  was  nearly  up  with  Hugh,  who  was  sav¬ 
agely  threatening  some  one,  but  whom,  or  what  he 
said,  he  could  not,  in  the  great  confusion,  under¬ 
stand.  At  that  moment  the  crowd  forced  their  way 
into  the  house,  and  Hugh— it  was  impossible  to  see 
by  what  means,  in  such  a  concourse — fell  headlong 
down. 

Barnaby  was  beside  him  when  he  staggered  to 
his  feet.  It  was  well  he  made  him  hear  his  voice, 
or  Hugh,  with  his  uplifted  axe,  would  have  cleft  his 
skull  in  twain. 

“Barnaby  —  you!  Whose  hand  was  that  that 
struck  me  down  ?” 

“  Not  mine.” 

“Whose? — I  say,  whose?”  he  cried,  reeling  back, 
and  looking  wildly  round.  “What  are  you  doing? 
Where  is  he  ?  Show  me !” 

“  You  are  hurt,”  said  Barnaby — as  indeed  he  was, 
in  the  head,  both  by  the  blow  he  had  received,  aud 
by  his  horse’s  hoof.  “  Come  away  with  me.” 

As  he  spoke,  he  took  the  horse’s  bridle  in  his  hand, 
turned  him,  and  dragged  Hugh  several  paces.  This 
brought  them  out  of  the  crowd,  which  was  pouring 
from  the  street  into  the  vintner’s  cellars. 

“Where’s — where’s  Dennis?”  said  Hugh,  coming 
to  a  stop,  and  checking  Barnaby  with  his  strong 
arm.  “Where  has  he  been  all  day?  What  did  he 
mean  by  leaving  me  as  he  did,  in  the  jail,  last  night  ? 
Tell  me,  you — d’ye  hear !” 

With  a  flourish  of  his  dangerous  weapon,  he  fell 
down  upon  the  ground  like  a  log.  After  a  minute, 
though  already  frantic  with  drinking  and  with  the 
wound  in  his  head,  he  crawled  to  a  stream  of  burn¬ 
ing  spirit  which  was  pouring  down  the  kennel,  and 
began  to  drink  at  it  as  if  it  were  a  brook  of  water. 

Barnaby  drew  him  away,  and  forced  him  to  rise. 
Though  he  could  neither  stand  nor  walk,  he  invol¬ 
untarily  staggered  to  his  horse,  climbed  upon  his 


back,  and  clung  there.  After  vainly  attempting  to 
divest  the  animal  of  his  clanking  trappings,  Barna¬ 
by  sprang  up  behind  him,  snatched  the  bridle,  turn¬ 
ed  into  Leather  Lane,  which  was  close  at  hand,  and 
urged  the  frightened  horse  into  a  heavy  trot. 

He  looked  back  once  before  he  left  the  street; 
aud  looked  upon  a  sight  not  easily  to  be  erased, 
even  from  his  remembrance,  so  long  as  he  had  life. 

The  vintner’s  house,  with  half  a  dozen  others  near 
at  hand,  was  one  great,  glowing  blaze.  All  night,  no 
one  had  essayed  to  quench  the  flames,  or  stop  their 
progress ;  but  now  a  body  of  soldiers  were  actively 
engaged  in  pulling  down  two  old  wooden  houses, 
which  were  every  moment  in  danger  of  taking  fire, 
and  which  could  scarcely  fail,  if  they  were  left  to 
burn,  to  extend  the  conflagration  immensely.  The 
tumbling  down  of  nodding  walls  and  heavy  blocks 
of  wood,  the  hooting  and  the  execrations  of  the 
crowd,  the  distant  firing  of  other  military  detach¬ 
ments,  the  distracted  looks  and  cries  of  those  whose 
habitations  were  in  danger,  the  hurrying  to  and  fro 
of  frightened  people  with’  their  goods;  the  reflec¬ 
tions  in  every  quarter  of  the  sky,  of  deep,  red,  soar¬ 
ing  flames,  as  though  the  last  day  had  come  and  the 
whole  universe  were  burning ;  the  dust,  and  smoke, 
and  drift  of  fiery  particles,  scorching  and  kindling 
all  it  fell  upon ;  the  hot,  unwholesome  vapor,  the 
blight  on  every  thing ;  the  stars,  aud  moon,  and 
very  sky,  obliterated ;  made  up  such  a  sum  of  drear¬ 
iness  and  ruin,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  face  of  heav¬ 
en  were  blotted  out,  and  night,  in  its  rest  and  quiet, 
and  softened  light,  never  could  look  upon  the  earth 
again. 

But  there  was  a  worse  spectacle  than  this — worse 
by  far  than  fire  and  smoke,  or  even  the  rabble’s  un¬ 
appeasable  and  maniac  rage.  The  gutters  of  the 
street,  and  every  crack  and  fissure  in  the  stones,  ran 
with  scorching  spirit,  which  being  dammed  up  by 
busy  hands,  overflowed  the  road  and  pavement,  and 
formed  a  great  pool,  into  which  the  people  dropped 
down  dead  by  dozens.  They  lay  in  heaps  all  round 
this  fearful  pond,  husbands  and  wives,  fathers  and 
sons,  mothers  and  daughters,  women  with  children 
in  their  arms  and  babies  at  their  breasts,  and  drank 
until  they  died.  While  some  stooped  with  their  lips 
to  the  brink  aud  never  raised  their  heads  again,  oth¬ 
ers  sprang  up  from  their  fiery  draught,  aud  danced, 
half  in  a  mad  triumph,  and  half  in  the  agony  of  suf¬ 
focation,  until  they  fell,  and  steeped  their  corpses  in 
the  liquor  that  had  killed  them.  Nor  was  even  this 
the  worst  or  most  appalling  kind  of  death  that  hap¬ 
pened  on  this  fatal  night.  From  the  burning  cellars, 
where  they  drank  out  of  hats,  pails,  buckets,  tubs, 
and  shoes,  some  men  were  drawn,  alive,  but  all  alight 
from  head  to  foot ;  who,  in  their  unendurable  an¬ 
guish  and  suffering,  making  for  any  thing  that  had 
the- look  of  water,  rolled,  hissing,  in  this  hideous  lake, 
and  splashed  up  liquid  fire  which  lapped  in  all  it  met 
with  as  it  ran  along  the  surface,  and  neither  spared 
the  living  nor  the  dead.  On  this  last  night  of  the 
great  riots — for  the  last  night  it  was — the  wretched 
victims  of  a  senseless  outcry,  became  themselves  the 
dust  and  ashes  of  the  flames  they  had  kindled,  and 
strewed  the  public  streets  of  London. 

With  all  he  saw  in  this  last  glance  fixed  indelibly 
upon  his  mind,  Barnaby  hurried  from  the  city  which 


HUGH  DISABLED. 


221 


inclosed  such  horrors ;  and  holding  down  his  head 
that  he  might  not  even  see  the  glare  of  the  fires  upon 
the  quiet  landscape,  was  soon  in  the  still  country 
roads. 

He  stopped  at  about  half  a  mile  from  the  shed 
where  his  father  lay,  and  with  some  difficulty  mak¬ 
ing  Hugh  sensible  that  he  must  dismount,  sunk  the 
horse’s  furniture  in  a  pool  of  stagnant  water,  and 
turned  the  animal  loose.  That  done,  he  supported 
his  companion  as  well  as  he  could,  and  led  him  slow¬ 
ly  forward. 

- ■» - 

CHAPTER  LXIX. 

IT  was  the  dead  of  night,  and  very  dark,  when  Bar- 
naby,  with  his  stumbling  comrade,  approached 
the  place  where  he  had  left  his  father;  but  he  could 
see  him  stealing  away  into  the  gloom,  distrustful 
even  of  him,  and  rapidly  retreating.  After  calling 
to  him  twice  or  thrice  that  there  was  nothing  to 
fear,  but  without  effect,  he  suffered  Hugh  to  sink 
upon  the  ground,  and  followed  to  bring  him  back. 

He  continued  to  creep  away,  until  Barnaby  was 
close  upon  him  ;  then  turned  and  said,  in  a  terrible, 
though  suppressed  voice : 

“Let  me  go.  Do  not  lay  hands  upon  me.  You 
have  told  her ;  and  you  and  she  together  have  be¬ 
trayed  me !” 

Barnaby  looked  at  him,  in  silence. 

“You  have  seen  your  mother!” 

“  No,”  cried  Barnaby,  eagerly.  “  Not  for  a  long 
time — longer  than  I  can  tell.  A  whole  year,  I  think. 
Is  she  here  ?” 

His  father  looked  upon  him  steadfastly  for  a  few 
moments,  and  then  said — drawing  nearer  to  him  as 
he  spoke,  for,  seeing  his  face,  and  hearing  his  words, 
it  was  impossible  to  doubt  his  truth : 

“  What  man  is  that  ?” 

“Hugh — Hugh.  Only  Hugh.  You  know  him. 
He  will  not  harm  you.  Why,  you’re  afraid  of  Hugh! 
Ha,  ha,  ha !  Afraid  of  gruff,  old,  noisy  Hugh !” 

“  What  man  is  he,  I  ask  you  ?”  he  rejoined  so  fierce¬ 
ly,  that  Barnaby  stopped  in  his  laugh,  and  shrinking 
back,  surveyed  him  with  a  look  of  terrified  amazement. 

“  Why,  how  stern  you  are !  You  make  me  fear 
you,  though  you  are  my  father.  Why  do  you  speak 
to  me  so  ?” 

— “  I  want,”  he  answered,  putting  away  the  hand 
which  his  son,  with  a  timid  desire  to  propitiate  him, 
laid  upon  his  sleeve — “  I  want  an  answer,  and  you 
give  me  only  jeers  and  questions.  Who  have  you 
brought  with  you  to  this  hiding-place,  poor  fool; 
and  where  is  the  blind  man  ?”  * 

“  I  don’t  know  where.  His  house  was  close  shut. 
I  waited,  but  no  person  came ;  that  was  no  fault  of 
mine.  This  is  Hugh — brave  Hugh,  who  broke  into 
that  ugly  jail,  and  set  us  free.  Aha !  You  like  him 
now,  do  you  ?  You  like  him  now !” 

“Why  does  he  lie  upon  the  ground?” 

“  He  has  had  a  fall,  and  has  been  drinking.  The 
fields  and  trees  go  round,  and  round,  and  round  with 
him,  and  the  ground  heaves  under  his  feet.  You 
know  him?  You  remember?  See!” 

They  had  by  this  time  returned  to  where  he  lay, 
and  both  stooped  over  him  to  look  into  his  face. 


“  I  recollect  the  man,”  his  father  murmured.  “  Why 
did  you  bring  him  here  ?” 

“  Because  he  would  have  been  killed  if  I  had  left 
him  over  yonder.  They  were  firing  guns  and  shedding 
blood.  Does  the  sight  of  blood  turn  you  sick,  fa¬ 
ther  ?  I  see  it  does,  by  your  face.  That’s  like  me 
— What  are  you  looking  at  ?” 

“At  nothing!”  said  the  murderer,  softly,  as  he 
started  back  a  pace  or  two,  and  gazed  with  sunken 
jaw  and  staring  eyes  above  his  son’s  head.  “At 
nothing !” 

He  remained  in  the  same  attitude  and  with  the 
same  expression  on  his  face  for  a  minute  or  more ; 
then  glanced  slowly  round  as  if  he  had  lost  some¬ 
thing;  and  went  shivering  back  toward  the  shed. 

“  Shall  I  bring  him  in,  father  ?”»  asked  Barnaby, 
who  had  looked  on  wondering. 

He  only  answered  with  a  suppressed  groan,  and 
lying  down  upon  the  ground,  wrapped  his  cloak 
about  his  head,  and  shrunk  into  the  darkest  corner. 

Finding  that  nothing  would  rouse  Hugh  now,  or 
make  him  sensible  for  a  moment,  Barnaby  dragged 
him  along  the  grass,  and  laid  him  on  a  little  heap  of 
refuse  hay  and  straw  which  had  been  his  own  bed; 
first  having  brought  some  water  from  a  running 
stream  hard  by,  and  washed  his  wound,  and  laved 
his  hands  and  face.  Then  he  lay  down  himself,  be¬ 
tween  the  two,  to  pass  the  night;  and  looking  at 
the  stars,  fell  fast  asleep. 

Awakened  early  in  the  morning,  by  the  sunshine, 
and  the  songs  of  birds,  and  hum  of  insects,  he  left 
them  sleeping  in  the  hut,  and  walked  into  the  sweet 
and  pleasant  air.  But  he  felt  that  on  his  jaded 
senses,  oppressed  and  burdened  with  the  dreadful 
scenes  of  last  night,  and  many  nights  before,  all  the 
beauties  of  opening  day,  which  he  had  so  often 
tasted,  and  in  which  he  had  had  such  deep  delight, 
fell  heavily.  He  thought  of  the  blithe  mornings 
when  he  and  the  dogs  went  bounding  on  together 
through  the  woods  and  fields ;  and  the  recollection 
filled  his  eyes  with  tears.  He  had  no  consciousness, 
God  help  him,  of  having  done  wrong,  nor  had  he  any 
new  perception  of  the  merits  of  the  cause  in  which 
he  had  been  engaged,  or  those  of  the  men  who  advo¬ 
cated  it ;  but  he  was  full  of  cares  now,  and  regrets, 
and  dismal  recollections,  and  wishes  (quite  unknown 
to  him  before)  that  this  or  that  event  had  never  hap¬ 
pened,  and  that  the  sorrow  and  suffering  of  so  many 
people  had  been  spared.  And  now  he  began  to  think 
how  happy  they  would  be — his  father,  mother,  he, 
and  Hugh — if  they  rambled  away  together,  and  lived 
in  some  lonely  place,  where  there  were  none  of  these 
troubles  ;  and  that  perhaps  the  blind  man,  who  had 
talked  so  wisely  about  gold,  and  told  him  of  the  great 
secrets  he  knew,  could  teach  them  how  to  live  with¬ 
out  being  pinched  by  want.  As  this  occurred  to  him, 
he  was  the  more  sorry  that  he  had  not  seen  him  last 
night;  and  he  was  still  brooding  over  this  regret, 
when  his  father  came  and  touched  him  on  the  shoul¬ 
der. 

“Ah!”  cried  Barnaby,  starting  from  his  fit  of 
thoughtfulness.  “Is  it  only  you?” 

“  Who  should  it  be  ?” 

“  I  almost  thought,”  he  answered,  “  it  was  the  blind 
man.  I  must  have  some  talk  with  him,  father.” 

“And  so  must  I,  for  without  seeing  him,  I  don’t 


222 


BAB  NAB  Y  BUDGE. 


know  where  to  fly  or  what  to  do,  and  lingering  here,  is 
death.  You  must  go  to  him  again,  and  bring  him  here.” 

“  Must  I !”  cried  Barnaby,  delighted ;  “  that’s  brave, 
father.  That’s  what  I  want  to  do.” 

“  But  you  must  bring  only  him,  and  none  other. 
And  though  you  wait  at  his  door  a  whole  day  and 
night,  still  you  must  wait,  and  not  come  back  with¬ 
out  him.” 

“  Don’t  you  fear  that,”  he  cried,  gayly.  “  He  shall 
come,  he  shall  come.” 

“  Trim  off  these  gewgaws,”  said  his  father,  pluck¬ 
ing  the  scraps  of  ribbon  and  the  feathers  from  his 
hat,  “  and  over  your  own  dress  wear  my  cloak.  Take 
heed  how  you  go,  and  they  will  be  too  busy  in  the 
streets  to  notice  you.  Of  your  coming  back  you 
need  take  no  account,  for  he’ll  manage  that,  safely.” 

“  To  be  sure!”  said  Barnaby.  “To  be  sure  he 
will!  A  wise  man,  father,  and  one  who  can  teach 
us  to  be  rich.  Oh !  I  know  him,  I  know  him.” 

He  was  speedily  dressed,  and  as  well  disguised  as 
he  could  be.  With  a  lighter  heart  he  then  set  off 
upon  his  second  journey,  leaving  Hugh,  who  was 
still  in  a  drunken  stupor,  stretched  upon  the  ground 
within  the  shed,  and  his  father  walking  to  and  fro 
before  it. 

The  murderer,  full  of  anxious  thoughts,  looked  af¬ 
ter  him,  and  paced  up  and  down,  disquieted  by  every 
breath  of  air  that  whispered  among  the  boughs,  and 
by  every  light  shadow  thrown  by  the  passing  clouds 
upon  the  daisied  ground.  He  was  anxious  for  his  safe 
return,  and  yet,  though  his  own  life  and  safety  hung 
upon  it,  felt  a  relief  while  he  was  gone.  In  the  in¬ 
tense  selfishness  which  the  constant  presence  before 
him  of  his  great  crimes,  and  their  consequences  here 
and  hereafter,  engendered,  every  thought  of  Barna¬ 
by,  as  his  son,  was  swallowed  up  and  lost.  Still,  his 
presence  was  a  torture  and  reproach ;  in  his  wild 
eyes,  there  were  terrible  images  of  that  guilty  night ; 
with  his  unearthly  aspect,  and  his  half-formed  mind, 
he  seemed  to  the  murderer  a  creature  who  had  sprung 
into  existence  from  his  victim’s  blood.  He  could  not 
bear  his  look,  his  voice,  his  touch ;  and  yet  he  was 
forced,  by  his  own  desperate  condition  and  his  only 
hope  of  cheating  the  gibbet,  to  have  him  by  his  side, 
and  to  know  that  he  was  inseparable  from  his  single 
chance  of  escape. 

He  walked  to  and  fro  with  little  rest,  all  day^  re¬ 
volving  these  things  in  his  mind ;  and  still  Hugh 
lay,  unconscious,  in  the  shed.  At  length,  when  the 
sun  was  setting,  Barnaby  returned,  leading  the  blind 
man,  and  talking  earnestly  to  him  as  they  came  along 
together. 

The  murderer  advanced  to  meet  them,  and  bidding 
his  son  go  on  and  speak  to  Hugh,  who  had  just  then 
staggered  to  his  feet,  took  his  place  at  the  blind  man’s 
elbow,  and  slowly  followed  toward  the  shed. 

“Why  did  you  send  him ?”  said  Stagg.  “Don’t 
you  know  it  was  the  way  to  have  him  lost,  as  soon 
as  found  ?” 

“  Would  you  have  had  me  come  myself?”  returned 
the  other. 

“  Humph  !  Perhaps  not.  I  was  before  the  jail  on 
Tuesday  night,  but  missed  you  in  the  crowd.  I  was 
out  last  night,  too.  There  was  good  work  last  night 
— gay  work — profitable  work” — he  added,  rattling 
the  money  in  his  pockets. 


“  Have  you — ” 

— “  Seen  your  good  lady  ?  Yes.” 

“  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  more,  or  not  ?” 

“  I’ll  tell  you  all,”  returned  the  blind  man,  with  a 
laugh.  “  Excuse  me — but  I  love  to  see  you  so  im¬ 
patient.  There’s  energy  in  it.” 

“  Does  she  consent  to  say  the  word  that  may  save 
me  ?” 

“  No,”  returned  the  blind  man  emphatically,  as  he 
turned  his  face  toward  him.  “  No.  Thus  it  is.  She 
has  been  at  death’s  door  since  she  lost  her  darling — 
has  been  insensible,  and  I  know  not  what.  I  tracked 
her  to  a  hospital,  and  presented  myself  (with  your 
leave)  at  her  bedside.  Our  talk  was  not  a  long  one, 
for  she  was  weak,  and  there  being  people  near,  I  was 
not  quite  easy.  But  I  told  her  all  that  you  and  I 
agreed  upon,  and  pointed  out  the  young  gentleman’s 
position,  in  strong  terms.  She  tried  to  soften  me, 
but  that,  of  course  (as  I  told  her),  was  lost  time. 
She  cried  and  moaned,  you  may  be  sure ;  all  women 
do.  Then,  of  a  sudden,  she  found  her  voice  and 
strength,  and  said  that  Heaven  would  help  her  and 
her  innocent  son ;  and  that  to  Heaven  she  appealed 
against  us — which  she  did,  in  really  very  pretty 
language,  I  assure  you.  I  advised  her,  as  a  friend, 
not  to  count  too  much  on  assistance  from  any  such 
distant  quarter — recommended  her  to  think  of  it — 
told  her  where  I  lived — said  I  knew  she  would  send 
to  me  before  noon,  next  day — and  left  her,  either  in 
a  faint  or  shamming.” 

When  he  had  concluded  this  narration,  duriug 
which  he  had  made  several  pauses,  for  the  conven¬ 
ience  of  cracking  and  eating  nuts,  of  which  he  seemed 
to  have  a  pocketful,  the  blind  man  pulled  a  flask  from 
his  pocket,  took  a  draught  himself,  and  offered  it  to 
his  companion. 

“  You  won’t,  won’t  you  ?”  he  said,  feeling  that  he 
pushed  it  from  him.  “  Well !  Then  the  gallant  gen¬ 
tleman  who’s  lodging  with  you  will.  Halloo,  bully!” 

“  Death !”  said  the  other,  holding  him  back. 
“Will  you  tell  me  what  I  am  to  do!” 

“  Do !  Nothing  easier.  Make  a  moonlight  flitting 
in  two  hours’  time  with  the  young  gentleman  (he’s 
quite  ready  to  go I  have  been  giving  him  good  ad¬ 
vice  as  we  came  along),  and  get  as  far  from  London 
as  you  can.  Let  me  know  where  you  are,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  me.  She  must  come  round ;  she  can’t  hold 
out  long ;  and  as  to  the  chances  of  your  being  retaken 
in  the  mean  while,  why  it  wasn’t  one  man  who  got 
out  of  Newgate,  but  three  hundred.  Think  of  that, 
for  your  comfort.” 

“  We  must  support  life.  How  ?” 

“  How !”  repeated  the  blind  man.  “  By  eating  and 
drinking.  And  how  get  meat  and  drink,  but  by  pay¬ 
ing  for  it !  Money !”  he  cried,  slapping  his  pocket. 
“Is  money  the  word  ?  Why,  the  streets  have  been 
running  money.  Devil  send  that  the  sport’s  not  over 
yet,  for  these  are  jolly  times  ;  golden,  rare,  roaring, 
scrambling  times.  Halloo,  bully  !  Halloo !  Halloo ! 
Drink,  bully,  drink !  Where  are  ye  there !  Halloo !” 

With  such  vociferations,  and  with  a  boisterous 
manner  which  bespoke  his  perfect  abandonment  to 
the  general  license  and  disorder,  he  groped  his  way 
toward  the  shed,  where  Hugh  and  Barnaby  were  sit¬ 
ting  on  the  ground. 

“  Put  it  about !”  he  cried,  handing  his  flask  to 


DOUBTFUL  BEHAVIOR  OF  MB.  DENNIS. 


223 


Hugh.  “The  kennels  run  with  wine  and  gold. 
Guineas  and  strong  water  flow  from  the  very  pumps. 
About  with  it,  don’t  spare  it !” 

Exhausted,  unwashed,  unshorn,  begrimed  with 
smoke  and  dust,  his  hair  clotted  with  blood,  his 
voice  quite  gone,  so  that  he  spoke  in  whispers ;  his 
skin  parched  up  by  fever,  his  whole  body  bruised 
and  cut,  and  beaten  about,  Hugh  still  took  the  flask, 
and  raised  it  to  his  lips.  He  was  in  the  act  of  drink¬ 
ing,  when  the  front  of  the  shed  was  suddenly  dark¬ 
ened,  and  Dennis  stood  before  them. 

* 

“No  offense,  no  offense,”  said  that  personage  in  a 
conciliatory  tone,  as  Hugh  stopped  in  his  draught, 
and  eyed  him,  with  no  pleasant  look,  from  head  to 


iron  buckles ;  the  pack-thread  at  his  knees  had  been 
renewed ;  and  where  he  wanted  buttons,  he  wore 
pins.  Altogether,  he  had  something  the  look  of  a 
tipstaff,  or  a  bailiff’s  follower,  desperately  faded,  but 
who  had  a  notion  of  keeping  up  the  appearance  of  a 
professional  character,  and  making  the  best  of  the 
worst  means. 

“  You’re  very  snug  here,”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  pulling 
out  a  mouldy  pocket-handkerchief,  which  looked 
like  a  decomposed  halter,  and  wiping  his  forehead 
in  a  nervous  manner. 

“  Not  snug  enough  to  prevent  your  finding  us,  it 
seems,”  Hugh  answered,  sulkily. 

“Why,  I’ll  tell  you  what,  brother,”  said  Dennis, 


HE  WAS  IN  THE  ACT  OF  HEIN  KING,  WHEN  THE  FEONT  OF  THE  SUED  WAS  SUDDENLY  DARKENED,  AND  DENNIS  STOOD  HEFOEE  THEM. 


foot.  “No  offense,  brother.  Barn aby  here  too,  eh ? 
How  are  you,  Barnaby  ?  And  two  other  gentlemen ! 
Your  humble  servant,  gentlemen.  No  offense  to  you 
either,  I  hope.  Eh,  brothers  ?” 

Notwithstanding  that  he  spoke  in  this  very  friend¬ 
ly  and  confident  manner,  he  seemed  to  have  consid¬ 
erable  hesitation  about  entering,  and  remained  out¬ 
side  the  roof.  He  was  rather  better  dressed  than 
usual :  wearing  the  same  suit  of  threadbare  black, 
it  is  true,  but  having  round  his  neck  an  unwhole¬ 
some-looking  cravat  of  a  yellowish  white ;  and,  on 
his  hands,  great  leather  gloves,  such  as  a  gardener 
might  wear  in  following  his  trade.  His  shoes  were 
newly  greased,  and  ornamented  with  a  pair  of  rusty 


with  a  friendly  smile,  “  when  you  don’t  want  me  to 
know  which  way  you’re  riding,  you  must  wear  an¬ 
other  sort  of  bells  on  your  horse.  Ah !  I  know  the 
sound  of  them  you  wore  last  night,  and  have  got 
quick  ears  for  ’em ;  that’s  the  truth.  Well,  but  how 
are  you,  brother  ?” 

He  had  by  this  time  approached,  and  now  vent¬ 
ured  to  sit  down  by  him. 

“How  am  I?”  answered  Hugh.  “Where  were 
you  yesterday?  Where  did  you  go  when  you  left 
me  in  the  jail  ?  Why  did  you  leave  me  ?  And 
what  did  you  mean  by  rolling  your  eyes  and  shaking 
your  fist  at  me,  eh  ?” 

“I  shake  my  fist ! — at  you, brother!”  said  Dennis, 


224 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


gently  checking  Hugh’s  uplifted  hand,  which  looked 
threatening. 

“  Your  stick,  then  ;  it’s  all  one.” 

“Lord  love  you,  brother,  I  meant  nothing.  You 
don’t  understand  me  by  half.  I  shouldn’t  wonder 
now,”  he  added,  in  the  tone  of  a  desponding  and  an 
injured  man,  “hut  you  thought,  because  I  wanted 
them  chaps  left  in  the  prison,  that  I  was  agoing  to 
desert  the  banners  ?” 

Hugh  told  him,  with  an  oath,  that  he  had 
thought  so. 

“  Well !”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  mournfully,  “if  you  an’t 
enough  to  make  a  man  mistrust  his  feller-creeturs, 
I  don’t  know  what  is.  Desert  the  banners !  Me ! 
Ned  Dennis,  as  was  so  christened  by  his  own  father ! 
— Is  this  axe  your’n,  brother  ?” 

“  Yes,  it’s  mine,”  said  Hugh,  in  the  same  sullen 
manner  as  before ;  “  it  might  have  hurt  you,  if  you 
had  come  in  its  way  once  or  twice  last  night.  Put 
it  down.” 

“  Might  have  hurt  me !”  said  Mr.  Dennis,  still 
keeping  it  in  his  hand,  and  feeling  the  edge  with  an 
air  of  abstraction.  “Might  have  hurt  me!  and  me 
exerting  myself  all  the  time  to  the  wery  best  ad¬ 
vantage.  Here’s  a  world!  And  you’re  not  agoing 
to  ask  me  to  take  a  sup  out  of  that  ’ere  bottle,  eh  ?” 

Hugh  passed  it  toward  him.  As  he  raised  it  to 
his  lips,  Barnaby  jumped  up,  and  motioning  them  to 
be  silent,  looked  eagerly  out. 

“  What’s  the  matter,  Barnaby  ?”  said  Dennis, 
glancing  at  Hugh  and  dropping  the  flask,  but  still 
holding  the  axe  in  his  hand. 

“  Hush  !”  he  answered  softly.  “  What  do  I  see 
glittering  behind  the  hedge  ?” 

“What!”  cried  the  hangman,  raising  his  voice  to 
its  highest  pitch,  and  laying  hold  of  him  and  Hugh. 
“  Not  soldiers,  surely !” 

That  moment,  the  shed  was  filled  with  armed 
men ;  and  a  body  of  horse,  galloping  into  the  field, 
drew  up  before  it. 

“There!”  said  Dennis,  who  remained  untouched 
among  them  when  they  had  seized  their  prisoners ; 
“it’s  them  two  young  ones,  gentlemen,  that  the 
proclamation  puts  a  price  on.  This  other’s  an  es¬ 
caped  felon. — I’m  sorry  for  it,  brother,”  he  added,  in 
a  tone  of  resignation,  addressing  himself  to  Hugh ; 
“  but  you’ve  brought  it  on  yourself;  you  forced  me 
to  do  it ;  you  wouldn’t  respect  the  soundest  consti- 
tootional  principles,  you  know ;  you  went  and  wio- 
lated  the  wery  frame-work  of  society.  I  had  sooner 
have  given  away  a  trifle  in  charity  than  done  this, 
I  would,  upon  my  soul. — If  you’ll  keep  fast  hold  on 
’em,  gentlemen,  I  think  I  can  make  a  shift  to  tie  ’em 
better  than  you  can.” 

But  this  operation  was  postponed  for  a  few  mo¬ 
ments  by  a  new  occurrence.  The  blind  man,  whose 
ears  were  quicker  than  most  people’s  sight,  had  been 
alarmed,  before  Barnaby,  by  a  rustling  in  the  bushes, 
under  cover  of  which  the  soldiers  had  advanced. 
He  retreated  instantly — had  hidden  somewhere  for 
a  minute — and  probably  in  his  confusion  mistaking 
the  point  at  which  he  had  emerged,  was  now  seeu 
running  across  the  open  meadow. 

An  officer  cried  directly  that  he  had  helped  to 
plunder  a  house  last  night.  He  was  loudly  called 
on,  to  surrender.  He  ran  the  harder,  and  in  a  few 


seconds  would  have  been  out  of  gunshot.  The  word 
was  given,  and  the  men  fired. 

There  was  a  breathless  pause  and  a  profound  si¬ 
lence,  during  which  all  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him. 
He  had  been  seen  to  start  at  the  discharge,  as  if  the 
report  had  frightened  him.  But  he  neither  stopped 
nor  slackened  his  pace  in  the  least,  and  ran  on  full 
forty  yards  farther.  Then,  without  one  reel  or  stag¬ 
ger,  or  sign  of  faintness,  or  quivering  of  any  limb,  he 
dropped. 

Some  of  them  hurried  up  to  where  he  lay,  the  hang¬ 
man  with  them.  Every  thing  had  passed  so  quick¬ 
ly,  that  the  smoke  had  not  yet  scattered,  but  curled 
slowly  off  in  a  little  cloud,  which  seemed  like  the 
dead  man’s  spirit  moving  solemnly  away.  There 
were  a  few  drops  of  blood  upon  the  grass — more, 
when  they  turned  him  over — that  was  all. 

“  Look  here  !  Look  here  !”  said  the  hangman, 
stooping  one  knee  beside  the  body,  and  gaziug  up 
with  a  disconsolate  face  at  the  officer  and  men. 
“  Here’s  a  pretty  sight !” 

“  Stand  out  of  the  way,”  replied  the  officer. 
“  Sergeant !  see  what  he  had  about  him.” 

The  man  turned  his  pockets  out  upon  the  grass, 
and  counted,  besides  some  foreign  coins  and  two 
rings,  five- and-forty  guineas  in  gold.  These  were 
bundled  up  in  a  handkerchief  and  carried  away; 
the  body  remained  there  for  the  present,  but  six 
men  and  the  sergeant  were  left  to  take  it  to  the 
nearest  public-house. 

“  Now  then,  if  you’re  going,”  said  the  sergeant, 
clapping  Dennis  on  the  back,  and  pointing  after  the 
officer  who  was  walking  toward  the  shed. 

To  which  Mr.  Dennis  only  replied,  “  Don’t  talk  to 
me!”  and  then  repeated  what  he  had  said  before, 
namely,  “  Here’s  a  pretty  sight !” 

“  It’s  not  one  that  you  care  for  much,  I  should 
think,”  observed  the  sergeant  coolly. 

“  Why,  who,”  said  Mr.  Dennis  rising,  “  should 
care  for  it,  if  I  don’t  ?” 

“  Oh !  I  didn’t  know  you  was  so  tender-hearted,” 
said  the  sergeant.  “  That’s  all !” 

“Tender-hearted!”  echoed  Dennis.  “Tender¬ 
hearted!  Look  at  this  man.  Do  you  call  this  con- 
stitootional  ?  Do  you  see  him  shot  through  and 
through  instead  of  being  worked  off"  like  a  Briton  ? 
Damme,  if  I  know  which  party  to  side  with.  You’re 
as  bad  as  the  other.  What’s  to  become  of  the  coun¬ 
try  if  the  military  power’s  to  go  superseding  the 
ciwilians  in  this  way?  Where’s  this  poor  feller- 
creetur’s  rights  as  a  citizen,  that  he  didn’t  have  me 
in  his  last  moments!  I  was  here.  I  was  willing. 
I  was  ready.  These  are  nice  times,  brother,  to  have 
the  dead  crying  out  agaiust  us  in  this  way,  and  sleep 
comfortably  in  our  beds  arterward  ;  wery  nice!” 

Whether  he  derived  any  material  consolation  from 
binding  the  prisoners,  is  uncertain ;  most  probably 
he  did.  At  all  events  his  being  summoned  to  that 
work,  diverted  him,  for  the  time,  from  these  painful 
reflections,  and  gave  his  thoughts  a  more  cougenial 
occupation. 

They  were  not  all  three  carried  off  together,  but 
in  two  parties;  Barnaby  and  his  father,  going  by 
one  road  in  the  centre  of  a  body  of  foot ;  and  Hugh, 
fast  bound  upon  a  horse,  and  strongly  guarded  by  a 
troop  of  cavalry,  being  taken  by  another. 


MR.  DENNIS  IS  HAPPY. 


225 


*■  They  had  no  opportunity  for  the  least  communi¬ 
cation,  in  the  short  interval  which  preceded  their  de¬ 
parture  ;  being  kept  strictly  apart.  Hugh  only  ob¬ 
served  that  Barnaby  walked  with  a  drooping  head 
among  his  guard,  and,  without  raising  his  eyes,  that 
he  tried  to  wave  his  fettered  hand  when  he  passed. 
For  himself,  he  buoyed  up  his  courage  as  he  rode 
along,  with  the  assurance  that  the  mob  would  force 
his  jail  wherever  it  might  be,  and  set  him  at  liberty. 
But  when  they  got  into  London,  and  more  especially 
into  Fleet  Market,  lately  the  stronghold  of  the  riot¬ 
ers,  where  the  military  were  rooting  out  the  last 
remnant  of  the  crowd,  he  saw  that  this  hope  was 
gone,  and  felt  that  he  was  riding  to  his  death. 


where  he  would,  some  heap  of  ruins  afforded  him 
rich  promise  of  a  working  off;  the  whole  town  ap¬ 
peared  to  have  been  plowed  and  sown,  and  nurtured 
by  most  genial  weather ;  and  a  goodly  harvest  was 
at  hand. 

Haviug  taken  up  arms  aud  resorted  to  deeds  of 
violence,  with  the  great  main  object  of  preserving 
the  Old  Bailey  in  all  its  purity,  and  the  gallows  in 
all  its  pristine  usefulness  and  moral  grandeur,  it 
would  perhaps  be  going  too  far  to  assert  that  Mr. 
Dennis  had  ever  distinctly  contemplated  and  fore¬ 
seen  this  happy  state  of  things.  He  rather  looked 
upon  it  as  one  of  those  beautiful  dispensations  which 
are  inscrutably  brought  about  for  the  behoof  aud  ad- 


CHAPTER  LXX. 

MR.  DENNIS  having  dispatched  this  piece  of  busi¬ 
ness  without  any  personal  hurt  or  inconven¬ 
ience,  and  having  now  retired  into  the  tranquil  re¬ 
spectability  of  private  life,  resolved  to  solace  him¬ 
self  with  half  an  hour  or  so  of  female  society.  With 
this  amiable  purpose  in  his  mind,  he  bent  his  steps 
toward  the  house  where  Dolly  and  Miss  Haredale 
were  still  confined,  and  whither  Miss  Miggs  had  also 
been  removed  by  order  of  Mr.  Simon  Tappertit. 

As  he  walked  along  the  streets  with  his  leather 
gloves  clasped  behind  him,  and  his  face  indicative 
of  cheerful  thought  and  pleasant  calculation,  Mr. 
Dennis  might  have  been  likened  unto  a  farmer  ru¬ 
minating  among  his  crops,  and  enjoying  by  antic¬ 
ipation  the  bountiful  gifts  of  Providence.  Look 

15 


vantage  of  good  men.  He  felt,  as  it  were,  personally 
referred  to,  in  this  prosperous  ripening  for  the  gib¬ 
bet  ;  and  had  never  considered  himself  so  much  the 
pet  and  favorite  child  of  Destiny,  or  loved  that  lady 
so  well  or  with  such  a  calm  and  virtuous  reliance, 
in  all  his  life. 

As  to  being  taken  up,  himself,  for  a  rioter,  aud 
punished  with  the  rest,  Mr.  Dennis  dismissed  that 
possibility  from  his  thoughts  as  an  idle  chimera ; 
arguing  that  the  line  of  conduct  he  had  adopted  at 
Newgate,  and  the  service  he  had  rendered  that  day, 
Avould  be  more  than  a  set-off  against  any  evidence 
which  might  identify  him  as  a  member  of  the  crowd. 
That  any  charge  of  companionship  which  might  be 
made  against  him  by  those  who  were  themselves  in 
danger,  would  certainly  go  for  naught.  And  that  if 
any  trivial  indiscretion  on  his  part  should  unluckily 


226 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


come  out,  the  uncommon  usefulness  of  his  office,  at 
present,  and  the  great  demaud  for  the  exercise  of 
its  functions,  would  certainly  cause  it  to  he  winked 
at,  and  passed  over.  In  a  word,  he  had  played  his 
cards  throughout,  with  great  care;  had  changed 
sides  at  the  very  nick  of  time ;  had  delivered  up  two 
of  the  most  notorious  rioters,  and  a  distinguished 
felon  to  boot ;  and  was  quite  at  his  ease. 

Saving — for  there  is  a  reservation  ;  and  even  Mr. 
Dennis  was  not  perfectly  happy — saving  for  one  cir¬ 
cumstance  ;  to  wit,  the  forcible  detention  of  Dolly 
and  Miss  Haredale,  in  a  house  almost  adjoining  his 
own.  This  was  a  stumbling-block ;  for  if  they  were 
discovered  and  released,  they  could,  by  the  testimony 
they  had  in  their  power  to  give,  place  him  in  a  situa¬ 
tion  of  great  jeopardy ;  and  to  set  them  at  liberty, 
first  extorting  from  them  an  oath  of  secrecy  and 
silence,  was  a  thing  not  to  be  thought  of.  It  was 
more,  perhaps,  with  an  eye  to  the  danger  which 
lurked  in  this  quarter,  than  from  his  abstract  love 
of  conversation  with  the  sex,  that  the  hangman, 
quickening  his  steps,  now  hastened  into  their  society, 
cursing  the  amorous  natures  of  Hugh  and  Mr.  Tap- 
pertit  with  great  heartiness,  at  every  step  he  took. 

When  he  entered  the  miserable  room  in  which 
they  were  confined,  Dolly  and  Miss  Haredale  with¬ 
drew  in  silence  to  the  remotest  corner.  But  Miss 
Miggs,  who  was  particularly  tender  of  her  reputa¬ 
tion,  immediately  fell  upon  her  knees  and  began  to 
scream  very  loud,  crying,  “What  will  become  of 
me!” — “Where  is  my  Simmuns !”  “Have  mercy, 
good  gentlemen,  on  my  sex’s  weaknesses!” — with 
other  doleful  lamentations  of  that  nature,  which  she 
delivered  with  great  propriety  and  decorum. 

“  Miss,  miss,”  whispered  Dennis,  beckoning  to 
her  with  his  forefinger,  “come  here  —  I  won’t  hurt 
you.  Come  here,  my  lamb,  will  you  ?” 

On  hearing  this  tender  epithet,  Miss  Miggs,  who 
had  left  off  screaming  when  he  opened  his  lips,  and 
had  listened  to  him  attentively,  began  again,  cry¬ 
ing,  “  Oh,  I’m  his  lamb !  He  says  I’m  his  lamb !  Oh 
gracious,  why  wasn’t  I  born  old  and  ugly !  Why 
was  I  ever  made  to  be  the  youngest  of  six,  and  all 
of  ’em  dead  and  in  their  blessed  graves,  excepting 
one  married  sister,  which  is  settled  in  Golden  Lion 
Court,  number  twenty-sivin,  second  bell-handle  on 
the — !” 

“  Don’t  I  say  I  an’t  agoing  to  hurt  you  ?”  said 
Dennis,  pointing  to  a  chair.  “Why,  miss,  what’s 
the  matter  ?” 

“  I  don’t  know  what  mayn’t  be  the  matter!”  cried 
Miss  Miggs,  clasping  her  hands  distractedly.  “Any 
thing  may  be  the  matter !” 

“But  nothing  is,  I  tell  you,”  said  the  hangman. 
“  First  stop  that  noise  and  come  and  sit  down  here, 
will  you,  chuckey  ?” 

The  coaxing  tone  in  which  he  said  these  latter 
words  might  have  failed  in  its  object,  if  he  had  not 
accompanied  them  with  sundry  sharp  jerks  of  his 
thumb  over  one  shoulder,  and  with  divers  winks 
aud  thrustings  of  his  tongue  into  his  cheek,  from 
which  signals  the  damsel  gathered  that  he  sought  to 
speak  to  her  apart,  concerning  Miss  Haredale  and 
Dolly.  Her  curiosity  being  very  powerful,  and  her 
jealousy  by  no  means  inactive,  she  arose,  and  with 
a  great  deal  of  shivering  and  starting  back,  and 


much  muscular  action  among  all  the  small  bones  in 
her  throat,  gradually  approached  him. 

“  Sit  down,”  said  the  hangman. 

Suiting  the  action  to  the  word,  he  thrust  her  rath¬ 
er  suddenly  and  prematurely  into  a  chair,  and  de¬ 
signing  to  re-assure  her  by  a  little  harmless  jocular¬ 
ity,  such  as  is  adapted  to  please  and  fascinate  the 
sex,  converted  his  right  forefinger  into  an  ideal  brad¬ 
awl  or  gimlet,  and  made  as  though  he  would  screw 
the  same  into  her  side — whereat  Miss  Miggs  shriek¬ 
ed  again,  and  evinced  symptoms  of  faintness. 

“Lovey,  my  dear,”  whispered  Dennis,  drawing  his 
chair  close  to  hers.  “When  was  your  young  man 
here  last,  eh  ?” 

“My  young  man,  good  gentleman!”  answered 
Miggs,  in  a  tone  of  exquisite  distress. 

“Ah  !  Simmuns,  you  know — him  ?”  said  Dennis. 

“Mine  indeed!”  cried  Miggs,  with  a  burst  of  bit¬ 
terness — and  as  she  said  it,  she  glanced  toward  Dol¬ 
ly.  “Mine,  good  gentleman !” 

This  was  just  what  Mr.  Dennis  wanted,  and  ex¬ 
pected. 

“Ah!”  he  said,  looking  so  soothingly,  not  to  say 
amorously,  on  Miggs,  that  she  sat,  as  she  afterward 
remarked,  on  pins  and  needles  of  the  sharpest  White¬ 
chapel  kind,  not  knowing  what  intentions  might  be 
suggesting  that  expression  to  his  features ;  “  I  was 
afraid  of  that.  I  saw  as  much  myself.  It’s  her 
fault.  She  will  entice  ’em.” 

“  I  wouldn’t,”  cried  Miggs,  folding  her  hands  and 
looking  upward  with  a  kind  of  devout  blankness, 
“  I  wouldn’t  lay  myself  out  as  she  does ;  I  wouldn’t 
be  as  bold  as  her ;  I  wouldn’t  seem  to  say  to  all  male 
creeturs,  1  Come  and  kiss  me  ’ — and  here  a  shudder 
quite  convulsed  her  frame — “  for  any  earthly  crowns 
as  might  be  offered.  Worlds,”  Miggs  added  solemn¬ 
ly,  “should  not  reduce  me.  No.  Not  if  I  was  We- 
nis.” 

“Well,  but  you  are  Wenus,  you  know,”  said  Mr. 
Dennis,  confidentially. 

“  No,  I  am  not,  good  gentleman,”  answered  Miggs, 
shaking  her  head  with  an  air  of  self-denial  which 
seemed  to  imply  that  she  might  be  if  she  chose,  but 
she  hoped  she  knew  better.  “No,  I  am  not,  good 
gentleman.  Don’t  charge  me  with  it.” 

Up  to  this  time  she  had  turned  round,  every  now 
and  then,  to  where  Dolly  and  Miss  Haredale  had  re¬ 
tired,  and  uttered  a  scream,  or  groan,  or  laid  her  hand 
upon  her  heart  and  trembled  excessively,  with  a  view 
of  keeping  up  appearances,  and  giving  them  to  under¬ 
stand  that  she  conversed  with  the  visitor,  under  pro¬ 
test  and  on  compulsion,  and  at  a  great  personal  sac¬ 
rifice,  for  their  common  good.  But  at  this  point,  Mr, 
Dennis  looked  so  very  full  of  meaning,  and  gave  such 
a  singularly  expressive  twitch  to  his  face  as  a  request 
to  her  to  come  still  nearer  to  him,  that  she  abandon¬ 
ed  these  little  arts,  and  gave  him  her  whole  and  un¬ 
divided  attention. 

“When  was  Simmuns  here,  I  say?”  quoth  Dennis, 
in  her  ear. 

“Not  since  yesterday  morning;  and  then  only  for 
a  few  minutes.  Not  all  day,  the  day  before.” 

“You  know  he  meant  all  along  to  carry  off  that 
one!”  said  Dennis,  indicating  Dolly  by  the  slightest 
possible  jerk  of  his  head ;  “  and  to  hand  you  over  to 
somebody  else.” 


ME.  DENNIS  WHEEDLES  MISS  MIGGS. 


227 


Miss  Miggs,  who  had  fallen  into  a  terrible  state  of 
grief  when  the  first  part  of  this  sentence  was  spoken, 
recovered  a  little  at  the  second,  and  seemed  by  the 
sudden  check  she  put  upon  her  tears,  to  intimate  that 
possibly  this  arrangement  might  meet  her  views ;  and 
that  it  might,  perhaps,  remain  an  open  question. 

“ — But  unfort’nately,”  pursued  Dennis,  who  ob¬ 
served  this,  “somebody  else  was  fond  of  her  too, 
you  see;  and  even  if  he  wasn’t,  somebody  else  is 
took  for  a  rioter,  and  it’s  all  over  with  him.” 

Miss  Miggs  relapsed. 

“Now  I  want,”  said  Dennis,  “to  clear  this  house, 
and  to  see  you  righted.  What  if  I  was  to  get  her 
off",  out  of  the  way,  eh  ?” 

Miss  Miggs,  brightening  again,  rejoined,  with  many 
breaks  and  pauses  from  excess  of  feeling,  that  temp¬ 
tations  had  been  Simmuns’s  bane.  That  it  was  not 
his  faults,  but  hers  (meaning  Dolly’s).  That  men 
did  not  see  through  these  dreadful  arts  as  women 
did,  and  therefore  was  caged  and  trapped,  as  Sim- 
mun  had  been.  That  she  had  no  personal  motives 
to  serve — far  from  it  —  on  the  contrary,  her  inten¬ 
tions  was  good  toward  all  parties.  But  forasmuch 
as  she  knowed  that  Simmun,  if  united  to  any  design¬ 
ing  and  artful  minxes  (she  would  name  no  names, 
for  that  was  not  her  dispositions) — to  any  design¬ 
ing  and  artful  minxes  —  must  be  made  miserable 
and  unhappy  for  life,  she  did  incline  toward  prewen- 
tions.  Such,  she  added,  was  her  free  confessions. 
But  as  this  was  private  feelings,  and  might  perhaps 
be  looked  upon  as  wengeance,  she  begged  the  gen¬ 
tleman  would  say  no  more.  Whatever  he  said,  wish¬ 
ing  to  do  her  duty  by  all  mankind,  even  by  them  as 
had  ever  been  her  bitterest  enemies,  she  would  not 
listen  to  him.  With  that  she  stopped  her  ears,  and 
shook  her  head  from  side  to  side,  to  intimate  to  Mr. 
Dennis  that  though  he  talked  until  he  had  no  breath 
left,  she  was  as  deaf  as  any  adder. 

“Lookee  here,  my  sugar-stick,”  said  Mr.  Dennis, 
“  if  your  view’s  the  same  as  mine,  and  you’ll  only  be 
quiet  and  slip  away  at  the  right  time,  I  can  have  the 
house  clear  to-morrow,  and  be  out  of  this  trouble. — 
Stop  though !  there’s  the  other.” 

“Which  other,  sir?”  asked  Miggs — still  with  her 
fingers  in  her  ears,  and  her  head  shaking  obstinately. 

“Why,  the  tallest  one,  yonder,”  said  Dennis,  as  lie 
stroked  his  chin,  and  added,  in  an  under-tone  to  him¬ 
self,  something  about  not  crossing  Muster  Gashford. 

Miss  Miggs  replied  (still  being  profoundly  deaf) 
that  if  Miss  Haredale  stood  in  the  way  at  all,  he 
might  make  himself  quite  easy  on  that  score;  as 
she  had  gathered,  from  what  passed  between  Hugh 
and  Mr.  Tappertit  when  they  were  last  there,  that 
she  was  to  be  removed  alone  (not  by  them,  but  by 
somebody  else),  to-morrow  night. 

Mr.  Dennis  opened  his  eyes  very  wide  at  this  piece 
of  information,  whistled  once,  considered  once,  and 
finally  slapped  his  head  once  and  nodded  once,  as  if 
he  had  got  the  clue  to  this  mysterious  removal,  and 
so  dismissed  it.  Then  he  imparted  his  design  concern¬ 
ing  Dolly  to  Miss  Miggs,  who  was  taken  more  deaf  than 
before,  when  he  began  ;  and  so  remained,  all  through. 

The  notable  scheme  was  this.  Mr.  Dennis  was 
immediately  to  seek  out  from  among  the  rioters, 
some  daring  young  fellow  (and  he  had  one  in  his 
eye,  he  said),  who,  terrified  by  the  threats  he  could 


hold  out  to  him,  and  alarmed  by  the  capture  of  so 
many  who  were  no  better  and  no  worse  than  he, 
would  gladly  avail  himself  of  any  help  to  get  abroad, 
and  out  of  harm’s  way,  with  his  plunder,  even  though 
his  journey  were  encumbered  by  an  unwilling  com¬ 
panion  ;  indeed,  the  unwilling  companion  being  a 
beautiful  girl,  would  probably  be  an  additional  in¬ 
ducement  and  temptation.  Such  a  person  found, 
he  proposed  to  bring  him  there  on  the  ensuing  night, 
when  the  tall  one  was  taken  off,  and  Miss  Miggs  had 
purposely  retired ;  and  then  that  Dolly  should  be 
gagged,  muffled  in  a  cloak,  and  carried  in  any  handy 
conveyance  down  to  the  river’s  side ;  where  there 
were  abundant  means  of  getting  her  smuggled  snug¬ 
ly  otf  in  any  small  craft  of  doubtful  character,  and 
no  questions  asked.  With  regard  to  the  expense  of 
this  removal,  he  would  say,  at  a  rough  calculation, 
that  two  or  three  silver  tea  or  coffee  pots,  with  some¬ 
thing  additional  for  drink  (such  as  a  muffineer,  or 
toast-rack),  would  more  than  cover  it.  Articles  of 
plate  of  every  kind  having  been  buried  by  the  riot¬ 
ers  in  several  lonely  parts  of  London,  and  particular¬ 
ly,  as  he  knew,  in  St.  James’s  Square,  which,  though 
easy  of  access,  was  little  frequented  after  dark,  and 
hacl  a  convenient  piece  of  water  in  the  midst,  the 
needful  funds  were  close  at  hand,  and  could  be  had 
upon  the  shortest  notice.  With  regard  to  Dolly, 
the  gentleman  would  exercise  his  own  discretion. 
He  would  be  bound  to  do  nothing  but  to  take  her 
away,  and  keep  her  away.  All  other  arrangements 
and  dispositions  would  rest  entirely  with  himself. 

If  Miss  Miggs  had  had  her  hearing,  no  doubt  she 
would  have  been  greatly  shocked  by  the  indelicacy 
of  a  young  female’s  going  away  with  a  stranger  by 
night  (for  her  moral  feelings,  as  we  have  said,  were 
of  the  tenderest  kind) ;  but  directly  Mr.  Dennis  ceased 
to  speak,  she  reminded  him  that  he  had  only  wasted 
breath.  She  then  went  on  to  say  (still  with  her  fin¬ 
gers  in  her  ears)  that  nothing  less  than  a  severe  prac¬ 
tical  lesson  would  save  the  lock-smith’s  daughter 
from  utter  ruin ;  and  that  she  felt  it,  as  it  were,  a 
moral  obligation  and  a  sacred  duty  to  the  family,  to 
wish  that  some  one  would  devise  one  for  her  reforma¬ 
tion.  Miss  Miggs  remarked,  and  very  justly,  as  an 
abstract  sentiment  which  happened  to  occur  to  her 
at  the  moment,  that  she  dared  to  say  the  lock-smith 
and  his  wife  would  murmur,  and  repine,  if  they  were 
ever,  by  forcible  abduction,  or  otherwise,  to  lose  their 
child ;  but  that  we  seldom  knew,  in  this  world,  what 
was  best  for  us :  such  being  our  sinful  and  imperfect 
natures,  that  very  few  arrived  at  that  clear  under¬ 
standing. 

Having  brought  their  conversation  to  this  satis¬ 
factory  end,  they  parted :  Dennis,  to  pursue  his  de¬ 
sign,  and  take  another  walk  about  his  farm :  Miss 
Miggs,  to  launch,  when  he  left  her,  into  such  a  burst 
of  mental  anguish  (which  she  gave  them  to  under¬ 
stand  was  occasioned  by  certain  tender  things  he  had 
had  the  presumption  and  audacity  to  say),  that  little 
Dolly’s  heart  was  quite  melted.  Indeed,  she  said 
and  did  so  much  to  soothe  the  outraged  feelings  of 
Miss  Miggs,  and  looked  so  beautiful  while  doing  so, 
that  if  that  young  maid  had  not  had  ample  vent  for 
her  surpassing  spite,  in  a  knowledge  of  the  mischief 
that  was  brewing,  she  must  have  scratched  her  fea¬ 
tures,  on  the  spot. 


228 


BAB NAB Y  BUDGE. 


CHAPTER  LXXI. 

ALL  next  day,  Emma  Haredale,  Dolly,  and  Miggs, 
remained  cooped  up  together  in  what  had  now 
been  their  prison  for  so  many  days,  without  seeing 
any  person,  or  hearing  any  sound  but  the  murmured 
conversation,  in  an  outer  room,  of  the  men  who  kept 
watch  over  them.  There  appeared  to  be  more  of 
these  fellows  than  there  had  been  hitherto;  and  they 
could  no  louger  hear  the  voices  of  women,  which  they 
had  before  plainly  distinguished.  Some  new  excite¬ 
ment,  too,  seemed  to  prevail  among  them ;  for  there 
was  much  stealthy  going  in  and  out,  and  a  constant 
questioning  of  those  who  were  newly  arrived.  They 
had  previously  been  quite  reckless  in  their  behavior ; 
often  making  a  great  uproar ;  quarreling  among  them¬ 
selves,  fighting,  dancing,  and  singing.  They  were 
now  very  subdued  and  silent,  conversing  almost  in 
whispers,  and  stealing  in  and  out  with  a  soft  and 
stealthy  tread,  very  different  from  the  boisterous 
trampling  in  which  their  arrivals  and  departures 
had  hitherto  been  announced  to  the  trembling  cap¬ 
tives. 

Whether  this  change  was  occasioned  by  the  pres¬ 
ence  among  them  of  some  person  of  authority  in 
their  ranks,  or  by  any  other  cause,  they  were  unable 
to  decide.  Sometimes  they  thought  it  was  in  part 
attributable  to  there  being  a  sick  man  in  the  cham¬ 
ber,  for  last  night  there  had  been  a  shuffling  of  feet, 
as  though  a  burden  were  brought  in,  and  afterward 
a  moaning  noise.  But  they  had  no  means  of  ascer¬ 
taining  the  truth:  for  any  question  or  entreaty  on 
their  parts  only  provoked  a  storm  of  execrations,  or 
something  worse ;  and  they  were  too  happy  to  be 
left  alone,  un assailed  by  threats  or  admiration,  to 
risk  even  that  comfort,  by  any  voluntary  communi¬ 
cation  with  those  who  held  them  in  durance. 

It  was  sufficiently  evident,  both  to  Emma  and  to 
the  lock-smith’s  poor  little  daughter  herself,  that  she, 
Dolly,  was  the  great  object  of  attraction  ;  and  that 
so  soon  as  they  should  have  leisure  to  indulge  in  the 
softer  passion,  Hugh  and  Mr.  Tappertit  would  cer¬ 
tainly  fall  to  blows  for  her  sake;  in  which  latter 
case,  it  was  not  very  difficult  to  see  whose  prize  she 
would  become.  With  all  her  old  horror  of  that  man 
revived,  and  deepened  into  a  degree  of  aversioq  and 
abhorrence  which  no  language  can  describe ;  with  a 
thousand  old  recollections  and  regrets,  and  causes 
of  distress,  anxiety,  and  fear,  besetting  her  on  all 
sides ;  poor  Dolly  Varden  —  sweet,  blooming,  buxom 
Dolly — began  to  hang  her  head,  and  fade,  and  droop, 
like  a  beautiful  flower.  The  color  fled  from  her 
cheeks,  her  courage  forsook  her,  her  gentle  heart  fail¬ 
ed.  Unmindful  of  all  her  provoking  caprices,  for¬ 
getful  of  all  her  conquests  and  inconstancy,  with  all 
her  winning  little  vanities  quite  gone,  she  nestled 
all  the  livelong  day  in  Emma  Haredale’s  bosom ;  and, 
sometimes  calling  on  her  dear  old  gray-haired  father, 
sometimes  on  her  mother,  and  sometimes  even  on  her 
old  home,  pined  slowly  away,  like  a  poor  bird  in  its 
cage. 

Light  hearts,  light  hearts,  that  float  so  gayly  on  a 
smooth  stream,  that  are  so  sparkling  and  buoyant  in 
the  sunshine — down  upon  fruit,  bloom  upon  flowers, 
blush  in  summer  air,  life  of  the  winged  insect,  whose 
whole  existence  is  a  day — how  soon  ye  sink  in  trou¬ 


bled  water !  Poor  Dolly’s  heart — a  little,  gentle,  idle, 
fickle  thing;  giddy,  restless,  fluttering;  constant  to 
nothing  but  bright  looks,  and  smiles  and  laughter — 
Dolly’s  heart  was  breaking. 

Emma  had  known  grief,  and  could  bear  it  better. 
She  had  little  comfort  to  impart,  but  she  could  soothe 
and  tend  her,  and  she  did  so ;  and  Dolly  clung  to  her 
like  a  child  to  its  nurse.  In  endeavoring  to  inspire 
her  with  some  fortitude,  she  increased  her  own  ;  and 
though  the  nights  were  long,  and  the  days  dismal, 
and  she  felt  the  wasting  influence  of  watching  and 
fatigue,  and  had  perhaps  a  more  defined  and  clear 
perception  of  their  destitute  condition  and  its  worst 
dangers,  she  uttered  no  complaint.  Before  the  ruf¬ 
fians,  in  whose  power  they  were,  she  bore  herself  so 
calmly,  and  with  such  an  appearance,  in  the  midst 
of  all  her  terror,  of  a  secret  conviction  that  they  dared 
not  harm  her,  that  there  was  not  a  man  among  them 
but  held  her  in  some  degree  of  dread ;  aud  more  than 
one  believed  she  had  a  weapon  hidden  in  her  dress, 
and  was  prepared  to  use  it. 

Such  was  their  condition  when  they  were  joined 
by  Miss  Miggs,  who  gave  them  to  understand  that 
she  too  had  been  taken  prisoner  because  of  her 
charms,  and  detailed  such  feats  of  resistance  she 
had  performed  (her  virtue  having  given  her  super¬ 
natural  strength),  that  they  felt  it  quite  a  happiness 
to  have  her  for  a  champion.  Nor  was  this  the  only 
comfort  they  derived  at  first  from  Miggs’s  presence 
and  society :  for  that  young  lady  displayed  such  res¬ 
ignation  and  long-suffering,  and  so  much  meek  en¬ 
durance,  under  her  trials,  and  breathed  in  all  her 
chaste  discourse  a  spirit  of  such  holy  confidence  and 
resignation,  and  devout  belief  that  all  would  happen 
for  the  best,  that  Emma  felt  her  courage  strengthen¬ 
ed  by  the  bright  example ;  never  doubting  but  that 
every  thing  she  said  was  true,  and  that  she,  like 
them,  was  torn  from  all  she  loved,  and  agonized 
by  doubt  and  apprehension.  As  to  poor  Dolly,  she 
was  roused,  at  first,  by  seeing  one  who  came  from 
home;  but  when  she  heard  under  what  circum¬ 
stances  she  had  left  it,  and  into  whose  hands  her  fa¬ 
ther  had  fallen,  she  wept  more  bitterly  than  ever, 
and  refused  all  comfort. 

Miss  Miggs  was  at  some  trouble  to  reprove  her  for 
this  state  of  mind,  and  to  entreat  her  to  take  example 
by  herself,  who,  she  said,  was  now  receiving  back, 
with  interest,  ten-fold  the  amount  of  her  subscrip¬ 
tions  to  the  red-brick  dwelling-house,  in  the  articles 
of  peace  of  mind  and  a  quiet  conscience.  And,  while 
on  serious  topics,  Miss  Miggs  considered  it  her  duty 
to  try  her  hand  at  the  conversion  of  Miss  Haredale; 
for  whose  improvement  she  launched  into  a  polemic¬ 
al  address  of  some  length,  in  the  course  whereof  she 
likened  herself  unto  a  chosen  missionary,  and  that 
young  lady  to  a  cannibal  in  darkness.  Indeed,  she 
returned  so  often  to  these  subjects,  and  so  frequent¬ 
ly  called  upon  them  to  take  a  lesson  from  her — 
at  the  same  time  vaunting  and,  as  it  were,  rioting  in, 
her  huge  unworthiness,  and  abundant  excess  of  sin 
— that,  in  the  course  of  a  short  time,  she  became,  in 
that  small  chamber,  rather  a  nuisance  than  a  com¬ 
fort,  and  rendered  them,  if  possible,  even  more  un¬ 
happy  than  they  had  been  before. 

The  night  had  now  come;  and  for  the  first  time 
(for  their  jailers  had  been  regular  in  bringing  food 


SELF-ASSERTION  IN  MISS  MIGGS. 


229 


and  candles),  they  were  left  in  darkness.  Any  change 
in  their  condition  in  such  a  place  inspired  new  fears  ; 
and  when  some  hours  had  passed,  and  the  gloom 
was  still  unbroken,  Emma  could  no  longer  repress 
her  alarm. 

They  listened  attentively.  There  was  the  same 
murmuring  in  the  outer  room,  and.  now  and  then  a 
moan  which  seemed  to  he  wrung  from  a  person  in 
great  pain,  who  made  an  effort  to  subdue  it,  but 
could  not.  Even  these  men  seemed  to  be  in  dark¬ 
ness  too ;  for  no  light  shone  through  the  chinks  in 
the  door,  nor  were  they  moving,  as  their  custom  was, 
hut  quite  still:  the  silence  being  unbroken  by  so 
much  as  the  creaking  of  a  board. 

At  first,  Miss  Miggs  wondered  greatly  in  her  own 
mind  who  this  sick  person  might  be ;  but  arriving, 
on  second  thoughts,  at  the  conclusion  that  he  was  a 
part  of  the  schemes  on  foot,  and  an  artful  device 
soon  to  be  employed  with  great  success,  she  opined, 
for  Miss  Haredale’s  comfort,  that  it  must  be  some 
misguided  Papist  who  had  been  wounded ;  and  this 
happy  supposition  encouraged  her  to  say,  under  her 
breath,  “Ally  Looyer!”  several  times. 

“  Is  it  possible,”  said  Emma,  with  some  indigna¬ 
tion,  “  that  you  who  have  seen  these  men  commit¬ 
ting  the  outrages  you  have  told  us  of,  and  who  have 
fallen  into  their  hands,  like  us,  can  exult  in  their 
cruelties !” 

“  Personal  considerations,  miss,”  rejoined  Miggs, 
“sinks  into  nothing,  afore  a  noble  cause.  Ally  Loo¬ 
yer!  Ally  Looyer!  Ally  Looyer,  good  gentlemen  !” 

It  seemed  from  the  shrill  pertinacity  with  which 
Miss  Miggs  repeated  this  form  of  acclamation,  that 
she  was  calling  the  same  through  the  key-hole  of 
the  door;  but  in  the  profound  darkness  she  could 
not  be  seen. 

“If  the  time  has  come  —  Heaven  knows  it  may 
come  at  any  moment — when  they  are  bent  on  pros¬ 
ecuting  the  designs,  whatever  they  may  be,  with 
which  they  have  brought  us  here,  can  you  still  en¬ 
courage,  and  take  part  with  them?”  demanded  Emma. 

“I  thank  my  goodness-gracious-blessed-stars  I  can, 
miss,”  returned  Miggs,  with  increased  energy. — “Ally 
Looyer,  good  gentlemen !” 

Even  Dolly,  cast  down  and  disappointed  as  she 
was,  revived  at  this,  and  bade  Miggs  hold  her  tongue 
directly. 

“  Tfhich,  was  you  pleased  to  observe,  Miss  Yar- 
den  ?”  said  Miggs,  with  a  strong  emphasis  on  the  ir¬ 
relative  pronoun.  * 

Dolly  repeated  her  request. 

“Ho,  gracious  me!”  cried  Miggs,  with  hysterical 
derision.  “  Ho,  gracious  me !  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  will. 
Ho  yes!  I  am  a  abject  slave,  and  a  toiling,  moiling, 
constant  -  working,  always  -  being  -  found  -  fault  -with, 
never -giving -satisfactions,  nor -having -no- time-to- 
clean-one’s  self,  potter’s  wessel — an’t  I,  miss !  Ho  yes ! 
My  situations  is  lowly,  and  my  capacities  is  limited, 
and  my  duties  is  to  humble  myself  afore  the  base 
degenerating  daughters  of  their  blessed  mothers  as 
is  fit  to  keep  companies  with  holy  saints  but  is  born 
to  persecutions  from  wicked  relations — and  to  de¬ 
mean  myself  before  them  as  is  no  better  than  Infi¬ 
dels —  an’t  it,  miss!  Ho  yes!  My  only  becoming 
occupations  is  to  help  young  flaunting  pagins  to 
brush  and  comb  and  titiwate  theirselves  into  whit¬ 


ening  and  suppulchres,  and  leave  the  young  men  to 
think  that  there  an’t  a  bit  of  padding  in  it  nor  no 
pinching  ins  nor  fillings  out  nor  pomatums  nor  de¬ 
ceits  nor  earthly  wanities — an’t  it,  miss  !  Yes,  to  be 
sure  it  is — ho  yes !” 

Having  delivered  these  ironical  passages  with  a 
most  wonderful  volubility,  and  with  a  shrillness  per¬ 
fectly  deafening  (especially  when  she  jerked  out  the 
interjections),  Miss  Miggs,  from  mere  habit,  and  not 
because  weeping  was  at  all  appropriate  to  the  occa¬ 
sion,  which  was  one  of  triumph,  concluded  by  burst¬ 
ing  into  a  flood  of  tears,  and  calling  in  an  impassion¬ 
ed  manner  on  the  name  of  Simmuns. 

What  Emma  Haredale  and  Dolly  would  have  done, 
or  how  long  Miss  Miggs,  now  that  she  had  hoisted 
her  true  colors,  would  have  gone  on  waving  them 
before  their  astonished  senses,  it  is  impossible  to 
tell.  Nor  is  it  necessary  to  speculate  on  these  mat¬ 
ters;  for  a  startling  interruption  occurred  at  that 
moment,  which  took  their  whole  attention  by  storm. 

This  was  a  violent  knocking  at  the  door  of  the 
house,  and  then  its  sudden  bursting  open  ;  which 
was  immediately  succeeded  by  a  scuffle  in  the  room 
without,  and  the  clash  of  weapons.  Transported 
with  the  hope  that  rescue  had  at  length  arrived, 
Emma  and  Dolly  shrieked  aloud  for  help ;  nor  were 
their  shrieks  unanswered ;  for  after  a  hurried  inter¬ 
val,  a  man,  bearing  in  one  hand  a  drawn  sword,  and 
in  the  other  a  taper,  rushed  into  the  chamber  where 
they  were  confined. 

It  was  some  check  upon  their  transport  to  find  in  • 
this  person  an  entire  stranger,  but  they  appealed  to 
him,  nevertheless,  and  besought  him,  in  impassioned 
language,  to  restore  them  to  their  friends. 

“For  what  other  purpose  am  I  here?”- he  answer¬ 
ed,  closing  the  door,  and  standing  with  his  back 
against  it.  “  With  what  object  have  I  made  my 
way  to  this  place,  through  difficulty  and  danger, 
but  to  preserve  you  ?” 

With  a  joy  for  which  it  was  impossible  to  find 
adequate  expression,  they  embraced  each  other,  and 
thanked  Heaven  for  this  most  timely  aid.  Their 
deliverer  stepped  forward  for  a  moment  to  put  the 
light  upon  the  table,  and  immediately  returning  to 
his  former  position  against  the  door,  bared  his  head, 
and  looked  on  smilingly. 

“You  have  news  of  my  uncle,  sir?”  said  f^nma, 
turning  hastily  toward  him. 

“And  of  my  father  and  mother  ?”  added  Dolly. 

“  Yes,”  he  said.  “  Good  news.” 

“  They  are  alive  and  unhurt  ?”  they  both  cried  at 
once. 

“  Yes,  and  unhurt,”  he  rejoined. 

“And  close  at  hand?” 

“  I  did  not  say  close  at  hand,”  he  answered  smooth¬ 
ly  ;  “they  are  at  no  great  distance.  Your  friends, 
sweet  one,”  he  added,  addressing  Dolly,  “are  within 
a  few  hours’  journey.  You  will  be  restored  to  them, 

I  hope,  to-night.” 

“My  uncle,  sir — ”  faltered  Emma. 

“Your  uncle,  dear  Miss  Haredale,  happily — I  say 
happily,  because  he  has  succeeded  where  many  of 
our  creed  have  failed,  and  is  safe — has  crossed  the 
sea,  and  is  out  of  Britain.” 

“  I  thank  God  for  it,”  said  Emma,  faintly. 

“  You  say  well.  You  have  reason  to  be  thankful : 


230 


BARXABY  BUDGE. 


greater  reason  than  it  is  possible  for  you,  who  have 
seen  but  one  night  of  these  cruel  outrages,  to  imagine.” 

“  Does  he  desire,”  said  Emma,  “  that  I  should  fol¬ 
low  him  ?” 

“  Do  you  ask  if  he  desires  it  ?”  cried  the  stranger, 
in  surprise.  “  If  he  desires  it !  But  you  do  not 
know  the  danger  of  remaining  in  England,  the  dif¬ 
ficulty  of  escape,  or  the  price  hundreds  would  pay  to 
secure  the  means,  when  you  make  that  inquiry.  Par¬ 
don  me.  I  had  forgotten  that  you  could  not,  being 
prisoner  here.” 

“  I  gather,  sir,”  said  Emma,  after  a  moment’s  pause, 
“  from  what  you  hint  at,  but  fear  to  tell  me,  that  I 
have  witnessed  but  the  beginning,  and  the  least,  of 
the  violence  to  which  we  are  exposed,  and  that  it 
has  not  yet  slackened  in  its  fury  ?” 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders,  shook  his  head,  lifted 
up  his  hands ;  and  with  the  same  smooth  smile,  which 
was  not  a  pleasant  one  to  see,  cast  his  eyes  upon  the 
ground,  and  remained  silent. 

“  You  may  venture,  sir,  to  speak  plain,”  said  Emma, 
“  and  to  tell  me  the  worst.  We  have  undergone  some 
preparation  for  it.” 

But  here  Dolly  interposed,  and  entreated  her  not 
to  hear  the  worst,  but  the  best ;  and  besought  the 
gentleman  to  tell  them  the  best,  and  to  keep  the  re¬ 
mainder  of  his  news  until  they  were  safe  among 
their  friends  again. 

“  It  is  told  in  three  words,”  he  said,  glancing  at 
v  the  lock-smith’s  daughter  with  a  look  of  some  dis- 
*pleasure.  “  The  people  have  risen,  to  a  man,  against 
us ;  the  streets  are  filled  with  soldiers,  who  support 
them  and  do  their  bidding.  We  have  no  protection 
but  from  above,  and  no  safety  but  in  flight ;  and  that 
is  a  poor  resource  ;  for  we  are  watched  on  every  hand, 
and  detained  here,  both  by  force  and  fraud.  Miss 
Haredale,  I  can  not  bear — believe  me,  that  I  can  not 
bear — by  speaking  of  myself,  or  what  I  have  done, 
or  am  prepared  to  do,  to  seem  to  vaunt  my  services 
before  you.  But,  having  powerful  Protestant  con¬ 
nections,  and  having  my  whole  wealth  embarked 
with  theirs  in  shipping  and  commerce,  I  happily 
possessed  the  means  of  saving  your  uncle.  I  have 
the  means  of  saving  you ;  and  in  redemption  of  my 
sacred  promise,  made  to  him,  I  am  here ;  pledged  not 
to  leave  you  until  I  have  placed  you  in  his  arms. 
The  treachery  or  penitence  of  one  of  the  men  about 
you,  led  to  the  discovery  of  your  place  of  confine¬ 
ment  ;  and  that  I  have  forced  my  way  here,  sword 
in  hand,  you  see.” 

“  You  bring,”  said  Emma,  faltering,  “  some  note  or 
token  from  my  uncle  ?” 

“  No,  he  doesn’t,”  cried  Dolly,  pointing  at  him  ear¬ 
nestly  ;  “  now  I  am  sure  he  doesn’t.  Don’t  go  with 
him  for  the  world !” 

“  Hush,  pretty  fool — be  silent,”  he  replied,  frown¬ 
ing  angrily  upon  her.  “  No,  Miss  Haredale,  I  have 
no  letter,  nor  any  token  of  any  kind ;  for  while  I 
sympathize  with  you,  and  such  as  you,  on  whom 
misfortune  so  heavy  and  so  undeserved  has  fallen,  I 
value  my  life.  I  carry,  therefore,  no  writing  which, 
found  upon  me,  would  lead  to  its  certain  loss.  I 
never  thought,  of  bringing  any  other  token,  nor  did 
Mr.  Haredale  think  of  intrusting  me  with  one — pos¬ 
sibly  because  he  had  good  experience  of  my  faith  and 
honesty,  and  owed  his  life  to  me.” 


There  was  a  reproof  conveyed  in  these  words, 
which  to  a  nature  like  Emma  Haredale’s,  was  well 
addressed.  But  Dolly,  who  was  differently  consti¬ 
tuted,  was  by  no  means  touched  by  it,  and  still  con¬ 
jured  her,  in  all  the  terms  of  affection  and  attach¬ 
ment  she  could  think  of,  not  to  be  lured  away. 

“  Time  presses,”  said  their  visitor,  who,  although  he 
sought  to  express  the  deepest  interest,  had  some¬ 
thing  cold  and  even  in  his  speech,  that  grated  on 
the  ear  ;  “  and  danger  surrounds  us.  If  I  have  ex¬ 
posed  myself  to  it,  in  vain,  let  it  be  so ;  but  if  you 
and  he  should  ever  meet  again,  do  me  justice.  If 
you  decide  to  remain  (as  I  think  you  do),  remember, 
Miss  Haredale,  that  I  left  you  with  a  solemn  cau¬ 
tion,  and  acquitting  myself  of  all  the  consequences 
to  which  you  expose  yourself.” 

“Stay,  sir!”  cried  Emma — “one  moment,  I  beg 
you.  Can  not  we  ” — and  she  drew  Dolly  closer  to 
her — “  can  not  we  go  together?” 

“  The  task  of  conveying  one  female  in  safety 
through  such  scenes  as  we  must  encounter,  to  say 
nothing  of  attracting  the  attention  of  those  who 
crowd  the  streets,”  he  answered,  “  is  enough.  I  have 
said  that  she  will  be  restored  to  her  friends  to-night. 
If  you  accept  the  service  I  tender,  Miss  Haredale,  she 
shall  be  instantly  placed  in  safe  conduct,  and  that 
promise  redeemed.  Do  you  decide  to  remain  ?  Peo¬ 
ple  of  all  ranks  and  creeds  are  flying  from  the  town, 
which  is  sacked  from  end  to  end.  Let  me  be  of  use 
in  some  quarter.  Do  you  stay,  or  go  ?” 

“Dolly,”  said  Emma,  in  a  hurried  manner,  “my 
dear  girl,  this  is  our  last  hope.  If  we  part  now,  it  is 
only  that  we  may  meet  again  in  happiness  and  hon¬ 
or.  I  will  trust  to  this  gentleman.” 

“No — no — no!”  cried  Dolly,  clinging  to  her. 
“  Pray,  pray,  do  not !” 

“  You  hear,”  said  Emma,  “  that  to-night — only  to¬ 
night —  within  a  few  hours — think  of  that! — you 
wrill  be  among  those  who  would  die  of  grief  to  lose 
you,  and  who  are  now  plunged  in  the  deepest  misery 
for  your  sake.  Pray  for  me,  dear  girl,  as  I  will  for 
you ;  and  never  forget  the  many  quiet  hours  we  have 
passed  together.  Say  one 1  God  bless  you  !’  Say  that 
at  parting !” 

But  Dolly  could  say  nothing ;  no,  not  when  Emma 
kissed  her  cheek  a  hundred  times,  and  covered  it 
with  tears,  could  she  do  more  than  hang  upon  her 
neck,  and  sob,  and  clasp,  and  hold  her  tight. 

“  We  have  time  for  no  more  of  this,”  cried  the  man, 
unclenching  her  hands,  and  pushing  her  roughly  off 
as  he  drew  Emma  Haredale  toward  the  door :  “  Now ! 
Quick,  outside  there !  are  you  ready  ?” 

“Ay!”  cried  a  loud  voice,  which  made  him  start. 
“  Quite  ready !  Stand  back  here,  for  your  lives  !” 

And  in  an  instant  he  was  felled  like  an  ox  in  the 
butcher’s  shambles — struck  down  as  though  a  block 
of  marble  had  fallen  from  the  roof  and  crushed  him 
— and  cheerful  light,  and  beaming  faces  came  pour¬ 
ing  in — and  Emma  was  clasped  in  her  uncle’s  em¬ 
brace,  and  Dolly,  with  a  shriek  that  pierced  the  air, 
fell  into  the  arms  of  her  father  and  mother. 

What  fainting  there  was,  what  laughing,  what  cry¬ 
ing,  what  sobbing,  what  smiling,  how  much  question¬ 
ing,  no  answering,  all  talking  together;  all  beside 
themselves  with  joy ;  what  kissing,  congratulating, 
embracing,  shaking  of  hands,  and  falling  into  all 


.TWO  STRANG  EES. 


231 


t  liese  raptures,  over  and  over  and  over  again  ;  no 
language  can  describe. 

At  length,  and  after  a  long  time,  the  old  lock-smith 
went  up  and  fairly  hugged  two  strangers,  who  had 
stood  apart  and  left  them  to  themselves ;  and  then 
they  saw  —  whom?  Yes,  Edward  Chester  and  Jo¬ 
seph  Willet. 

“  See  here  !”  cried  the  lock-smith.  “  See  here ! 
where  would  any  of  us  have  been  without  these 
two?  Oh,  Mr.  Edward,  Mr.  Edward — oh,  Joe,  Joe, 
how  light,  and  yet  how  full,  you  have  made  my  old 
heart  to-night !” 

“  It  was  Mr.  Edward  that  knocked  him  down,  sir,” 
said  Joe  :  “  I  longed  to  do  it,  but  I  gave  it  up  to  him. 
Come,  you  brave  and  honest  gentleman !  Get  your 
senses  together,  for  you  haven’t  long  to  lie  here.” 

He  had  his  foot  upon  the  breast  of  their  sham  de¬ 
liverer,  in  the  absence  of  a  spare  arm ;  and  gave  him 
a  gentle  roll  as  he  spoke.  Gasliford,  for  it  was  no 
other,  crouching  yet  malignant,  raised  his  scowling 
face,  like  sin  subdued,  and  pleaded  to  be  gently  used. 

“  I  have  access  to  all  my  lord’s  papers,  Mr.  Hare- 
dale,”  he  said,  in  a  submissive  voice  (Mr.  Haredale 
keeping  his  back  toward  him,  and  not  once  looking 
round);  “there  are  very  important  documents  among 
them.  There  are  a  great  many  in  secret  drawers, 
and  distributed  in  various  places,  known  only  to  my 
lord  and  me.  I  can  give  some  very  valuable  infor¬ 
mation,  and  render  important  assistance  to  any  in¬ 
quiry.  You  will  have  to  answer  it,  if  I  receive  ill 
usage.” 

“  Pah!”  cried  Joe, in  deep  disgust.  “Get  up,  man  ; 
you’re  waited  for,  outside.  Get  up,  do  you  hear  ?” 

Gasliford  slowly  rose ;  and  picking  up  his  hat,  and 
looking  with  a  baffled  malevolence,  yet  with  an  air 
of  despicable  humility,  all  round  the  room,  crawled 
out. 

“And  now,  gentlemen,” said  Joe,  who  seemed  to 
be  the  spokesman  of  the  party,  for  all  the  rest  were 
silent,  “  the  sooner  we  get  back  to  the  Black  Lion, 
the  better  perhaps.” 

Mr.  Haredale  nodded  assent,  and  drawing  his 
niece’s  arm  through  his,  and  taking  one  of  her  hands 
between  his  own,  passed  out  straightway  ;  followed 
by  the  lock-smith,  Mrs.  Varden,  and  Dolly  —  who 
would  scarcely  have  presented  a  sufficient  surface 
for  all  the  hugs  and  caresses  they  bestowed  upon 
her  though  she  had  been  a  dozen  Dollys.  Edward 
Chester  and  Joe  followed. 

And  did  Dolly  never  once  look  behind — not  once  ? 
Was  there  not  one  little  fleeting  glimpse  of  the  dark 
eyelash,  almost  resting  on  her  flushed  cheek,  and  of 
the  downcast  sparkling  eye  it  shaded  ?  Joe  thought 
there  was — and  he  is  not  likely  to  have  been  mis¬ 
taken;  for  there  were  not  many  eyes  like  Dolly’s, 
that’s  the  truth. 

The  outer  room  through  which  they  had  to  pass, 
was  full  of  men  ;  among  them,  Mr.  Dennis  in  safe 
keeping  ;  and  there,  had  been  since  yesterday,  lying 
iu  hiding  behind  a  wooden  screen  which  was  now 
thrown  down,  Simon  Tappertit,  the  recreant  ’pren¬ 
tice,  burned  and  bruised,  and  with  a  gunshot  wound 
iu  his  body  ;  and  his  legs — his  perfect  legs,  the  pride 
and  glory  of  his  life,  the  comfort  of  his  existence 
— crushed  into  shapeless  ugliness.  Wondering  no 
longer  at  the  moans  they  had  heard,  Dolly  kept 


closer  to  her  father,  and  shuddered  at  the  sight ;  but 
neither  bruises,  burns,  nor  gunshot  wound,  nor  all 
the  torture  of  his  shattered  limbs,  sent  half  so  keen 
a  pang  to  Simon’s  breast,  as  Dolly  passing  out,  with 
Joe  for  her  preserver. 

A  coach  was  ready  at  the  door,  and  Dolly  found 
herself  safe  and  whole  inside,  between  her  father  and 
mother,  with  Emma  Haredale  and  her  uncle,  quite 
real,  sitting  opposite.  But  there  was  no  Joe,  no  Ed¬ 
ward  ;  and  they  had  said  nothing.  They  had  only 
bowed  once,  and  kept  at  a  distance.  Dear  heart ! 
what  a  long  way  it  was  to  the  Black  Lion. 


CHAPTER  LXXII. 

THE  Black  Lion  was  so  far  off,  and  occupied  such 
a  length  of  time  in  the  getting  at,  that  not¬ 
withstanding  the  strong  presumptive  evidence  she 
had  about  her  of  the  late  events  being  real  and  of 
actual  occurrence,  Dolly  could  not  divest  herself  of 

the  belief  that  she  must  be  in  a  dream  which  was 

\ 

lasting  all  night.  Nor  was  she  quite  certain  that 
she  saw  and  heard  with  her  own  proper  senses,  even 
when  the  coach,  in  the  fullness  of  time,  stopped  at 
the  Black  Lion,  and  the  host  of  that  tavern  ap¬ 
proached  in  a  gush  of  cheerful  light  to  help  them  to 
dismount,  and  give  them  hearty  welcome. 

There  too,  at  the  coach  door,  one  on  one  side,  one 
upon  the  other,  were  already  Edward  Chester  and 
Joe  Willet,  who  must  have  followed  in  another 
coach  :  and  this  was  such  a  strange  and  unaccounta¬ 
ble  proceeding,  that  Dolly  was  the  more  inclined  to 
favor  the  idea  of  her  being  fast  asleep.  But  when 
Mr.  Willet  appeared — old  John  himself — so  heavy- 
headed  and  obstinate,  and  with  such  a  double  chin 
as  the  liveliest  imagination  could  never  in  its  bold¬ 
est  flights  have  conjured  up  in  all  its  vast  propor¬ 
tions — then  she  stood  corrected,  and  unwillingly  ad¬ 
mitted  to  herself  that  she  was  broad  awake. 

And  Joe  had  lost  an  arm — he— that  well-made, 
handsome,  gallant  fellow  !  As  Dolly  glanced  to¬ 
ward  him,  and  thought  of  the  pain  he  must  have 
suffered,  and  the  far-off  places  in  which  he  had  been 
wandering,  and  wondered  who  had  been  his  nurse, 
and  hoped  that  whoever  it  was,  she  had  been  as  kind 
and  gentle  and  considerate  as  she  would  have  been, 
the  tears  came  rising  to  her  bright  eyes,  one  by  one, 
little  by  little,  until  she  could  keep  them  back  no 
longer,  and  so  before  them  all,  wept  bitterly. 

“  We  are  all  safe  now,  Dolly,”  said  her  father  kiud- 
ly.  “We  shall  not  be  separated  any  more.  Cheer 
up,  my  love,  cheer  up !” 

The  lock-smith’s  wife  knew  better  perhaps,  than 
he,  what  ailed  her  daughter.  But  Mrs.  Varden  be¬ 
ing  quite  an  altered  woman — for  the  riots  had  done 
that  good — added  her  word  to  his,  and  comforted 
her  with  similar  representations. 

“Mayhap,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  senior,  looking  round 
upon  the  company,  “  she’s  hungry.  That’s  what  it 
is,  depend  upon  it — I  am  myself.” 

The  Black  Lion,  who,  like  old  John,  had  been  wait¬ 
ing  supper  past  all  reasonable  and  conscionable 
hours,  hailed  this  as  a  philosophical  discovery  of  the 
profoundest  and  most  penetrating  kind ;  and  the 


232 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


table  being  already  spread,  they  sat  down  to  supper 
straightway. 

The  conversation  was  not  of  the  liveliest  nature, 
nor  were  the  appetites  of  some  among  them  very 
keen.  But,  in  both  these  respects,  old  John  more 
than  atoned  for  any  deficiency  on  the  part  of  the  rest, 
and  very  much  distinguished  himself. 

It  was  not  in  point  of  actual  conversation  that 
Mr.  Willet  shone  so  brilliantly,  for  he  had  none  of 
his  old  cronies  to  “  tackle,”  and  was  rather  timorous 
of  venturing  on  Joe;  having  certain  vague  misgiv¬ 
ings  within  him,  that  he  was  ready  on  the  shortest 
notice,  and  on  receipt  of  the  slightest  offense,  to  fell 
the  Black  Lion  to  the  floor  of  his  own  parlor,  and  im¬ 
mediately  to  withdraw  to  China  or  some  other  remote 
and  unknown  region,  there  to  dwell  for  evermore, 
or  at  least  until  he  had  got  rid  of  his  remaining  arm 
and  both  legs,  and  perhaps  an  eye  or  so,  into  the  bar¬ 
gain.  It  was  with  a  peculiar  kind  of  pantomime 
that  Mr.  Willet  filled  up  every  pause  ;  and  in  this  he 
was  considered  by  the  Black  Lion,  who  had  been  his 
familiar  for  some  years,  quite  to  surpass  and  go  be¬ 
yond  himself,  and  outrun  the  expectations  of  his 
most  admiring  friends. 

The  subject  that  worked  in  Mr.  Willet’s  mind,  and 
occasioned  these  demonstrations,  was  no  other  than 
his  son’s  bodily  disfigurement,  which  he  had  never 
yet  got  himself  thoroughly  to  believe,  or  comprehend. 
Shortly  after  their  first  meeting,  he  had  been  ob¬ 
served  to  wander,  in  a  state  of  great  perplexity,  to 
the  kitchen,  and  to  direct  his  gaze  toward  the  fire, 
as  if  in  search  of  his  usual  adviser  in  all  matters  of 
doubt  and  difficulty.  But  there  being  uo  boiler  at 
the  Black  Lion,  and  the  rioters  having  so  beaten  and 
battered  his  own  that  it  was  quite  unfit  for  further 
service,  he  wandered  out  again,  in  a  perfect  bog  of 
uncertainty  and  mental  confusion,  and  in  that  state 
took  the  strangest  means  of  resolving  his  doubts : 
such  as  feeling  the  sleeve  of  his  son’s  great-coat,  as 
deeming  it  possible  that  his  arm  might  be  there; 
looking  at  his  own  arms  and  those  of  every  body  else, 
as  if  to  assure  himself  that  two  and  not  one  was  the 
usual  allowance ;  sitting  by  the  hour  together  in  a 
brown  study,  as  if  he  were  endeavoring  to  recall  Joe’s 
image  in  his  younger  days,  and  to  remember  wheth¬ 
er  he  really  had  in  those  times  one  arm  or  a  pair; 
and  employing  himself  in  many  other  speculations 
of  the  same  kind. 

Finding  himself  at  this  supper,  surrounded  by 
faces  with  which  he  had  been  so  well  acquainted  in 
old  times,  Mr.  Willet  recurred  to  the  subject  with 
uncommon  vigor ;  apparently  resolved  to  understand 
it  now  or  never.  Sometimes,  after  every  two  or  there 
mouthfuls,  he  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork,  and 
stared  at  his  son  with  all  his  might — particularly  at 
his  maimed  side:  then,  he  looked  slowly  round  the 
table  until  he  caught  some  person’s  eye,  when  he 
shook  his  head  with  great  solemnity,  patted  his 
shoulder,  winked,  or  as  one  may  say — for  winking 
was  a  very  slow  process  with  him — went  to  sleep 
with  one  eye  for  a  minute  or  two ;  and  so,  with 
another  solemn  shaking  of  his  head,  took  up  his 
knife  and  fork  again,  and  went  on  eating.  Some¬ 
times,  he  put  his  food  into  his  mouth  abstractedly, 
and,  with  all  his  faculties  concentrated  on  Joe,  gazed 
at  him  in  a  fit  of  stupefaction  as  he  cut  his  meat 


with  one  hand,  until  he  was  recalled  to  himself  by 
symptoms  of  choking  on  his  own  part,  and  was 
by  that  means  restored  to  consciousness.  At  other 
times  he  resorted  to  such  small  devices  as  asking  him 
for  the  salt,  the  pepper,  the  vinegar,  the  mustard — 
any  thing  that  was  on  his  maimed  side — and  watch¬ 
ing  him  as  he  handed  it.  By  dint  of  these  experi¬ 
ments,  he  did  at  last  so  satisfy  and  convince  himself 
that,  after  a  longer  silence  than  he  had  yet  maintain¬ 
ed,  he  laid  down  his  knife  and  fork  on  either  side 
his  plate,  drank  a  long  draught  from  a  tankard  be¬ 
side  him  (still  keeping  his  eyes  on  Joe),  and  leaning 
backward  in  his  chair  and  fetching  a  long  breath, 
said,  as  he  looked  all  round  the  board : 

“  It’s  been  took  off!” 

“  By  George !”  said  the  Black  Lion,  striking  the 
table  with  his  hand,  “  he’s  got  it !” 

“  Yes,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  with  the  look  of  a  man 
who  felt  that  he  had  earned  a  compliment,  and  de¬ 
served  it.  “  That’s  where  it  is.  It’s  been  took  off.” 

“Tell  him  where  it  was  done,”  said  the  Black 
Lion  to  Joe. 

“At  the  defense  of  the  Savannah,  father.” 

“At  the  defense  of  the  Salwanners,”  repeated  Mr. 
Willet,  softly ;  again  looking  round  the  table. 

“  In  America,  where  the  war  is,”  said  Joe. 

“  In  America,  where  the  war  is,”  repeated  Mr. 
Willet.  “  It  was  took  off  in  the  defense  of  the  Sal¬ 
wanners  in  America  where  the  war  is.”  Continuing 
to  repeat  these  words  to  himself  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice  (the  same  information  had  been  convey#d  to 
him  in  the  same  terms,  at  least  fifty  times  before), 
Mr.  Willet  arose  from  table,  walked  round  to  Joe, 
felt  his  empty  sleeve  all  the  way  up,  from  the  cuff, 
to  where  the  stump  of  his  arm  remained;  shook  his 
hand ;  lighted  his  pipe  at  the  fire,  took  a  long  whiff, 
walked  to  the  door,  turned  round  once  when  he  had 
reached  it,  wiped  his  left  eye  with  the  back  of  his 
forefinger,  and  said,  in  a  faltering  voice,  “  My  son’s 
arm — was  took  off — at  the  defense  of  the — Salwan¬ 
ners — in  America — where  the  war  is  ” — with  which 
words  he  withdrew,  and  returned  no  more  that  night. 

Indeed,  on  various  pretenses,  they  all  withdrew 
one  after  another,  save  Dolly,  who  was  left  sitting 
there  alone.  It  was  a  great  relief  to  be  alone,  and 
she  was  crying  to  her  heart’s  content,  when  she 
heard  Joe’s  voice  at  the  end  of  the  passage,  bidding 
somebody  good-night. 

Good-uiglit!  Then  he  was  going  elsewhere — to 
some  distance,  perhaps.  To  what  kind  of  home  could 
he  be  going,  now  that  it  was  so  late ! 

She  heard  him  walk  along  the  passage,  and  pass 
the  door.  But  there  was  a  hesitation  in  his  foot¬ 
steps.  He  turned  back — Dolly’s  heart  beat  high — 
he  looked  in. 

“Good-niglit!” — he  didn’t  say  Dolly,  but  there 
was  comfort  in  his  not  saying  Miss  Varden. 

“  Good-night !”  sobbed  Dolly. 

“  I  am  sorry  you  take  on  so  much,  for  what  is  past 
and  gone,”  said  Joe,  kindly.  “  Don’t.  I  can’t  bear 
to  see  you  do  it.  Think  of  it  no  longer.  You  are 
safe  and  happy  now.” 

Dolly  cried  the  more. 

“  You  must  have  suffered  very  much  within  these 
few  days  —  and  yet  you’re  not  changed,  unless  ir’s 
for  the  better.  They  said  you  were,  but  I  don’t  see 


“I  SHALL  BLESS  YOUR  NAME” 


233 


it.  You  were — you  were  always  very  beautiful,” 
said  Joe,  “but  you  are  more  beautiful  than  ever, 
now.  You  are  indeed.  There  can  be  no  harm  in 
my  saying  so,  for  you  must  know  it.  You  are  told 
so  very  often,  I  am  sure.” 

As  a  general  principle,  Dolly  did  know  it,  and 
was  told  so  very  often.  But  the  coach-maker  had 
turned  out,  years  ago,  to  be  a  special  donkey  ;  and 


burst.  I  shall  remember  it  in  my  prayers,  every 
night  and  morning  till  I  die  !” 

“Will  you?”  said  Joe,  eagerly.  “Will  you  in¬ 
deed?  It  makes  me — well,  it  makes  me  very  glad 
and  proud  to  hear  you  say  so.” 

Dolly  still  sobbed,  and  held  her  handkerchief  to 
her  eyes.  Joe  still  stood  looking  at  her. 

“Your  voice,”  said  Joe,'  “brings  up  old  times  so 


DOT.EY  VA11DEN  AND  JOE  WII/LKT. 


whether  she  had  been  afraid  of  making  similar  dis¬ 
coveries  in  others,  or  had  grown  by  dint  of  long  cus¬ 
tom  to  be  careless  of  compliments  generally,  certain 
it  is  that  although  she  cried  so  much,  she  was  better 
pleased  to  be  told  so  now,  than  ever  she  had  been  in 
all  her  life. 

“  I  shall  bless  your  name,”  sobbed  the  lock-smith’s 
little  daughter,  “  as  long  as  I  live.  I  shall  never 
hear  it  spoken  without  feeling  as  if  my  heart  would 


pleasantly,  that,  for  the  moment,  I  feel  as  if  that 
night — there  can  be  no  harm  in  talking  of  that  night 
now — had  come  back,  and  nothing  had  happened  in 
the  mean  time.  I  feel  as  if  I  hadn’t  suffered  any 
hardships,  but  had  knocked  down  poor  Tom  Cobb 
only  yesterday,  and  had  come  to  see  you  with  my 
bundle  on  my  shoulder  before  running  away — you 
remember  ?” 

Remember!  But  she  said  nothing.  She  raised 


234 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


her  eyes  for  an  instant.  It  was  but  a  glance ;  a  lit¬ 
tle,  tearful,  timid  glance.  It  kept  Joe  silent  though, 
for  a  long  time. 

“Well!”  he  said,  stoutly,  “  it  was  to  be  otherwise, 
and  was.  I  have  been  abroad,  fighting  all  the  sum¬ 
mer  and  frozen  up  all  the  winter,  ever  since.  I  have 
come  back  as  poor  in  purse  as  I  went,  and  crip¬ 
pled  for  life  besides.  But,  Dolly,  I  would  rather 
have  lost  this  other  arm  —  ay,  I  would  rather  have 
lost  my  head — than  have  come  back  to  find  you 
dead,  or  any  thing  but  what  I  always  pictured  you 
to  myself,  and  what  I  always  hoped  and  wished  to 
lind  you.  Thank  God  for  all !” 

Oh,  how  much,  and  how  keenly,  the  little  coquette 
of  five  years  ago  felt  now  !  She  had  found  her  heart 
at  last.  Never  having  known  its  worth  till  now, 
she  had  never  known  the  worth  of  his.  How  price¬ 
less  it  appeared ! 

“  I  did  hope  once,”  said  Joe,  in  his  homely  way, 
“  that  I  might  come  back  a  rich  man,  and  marry 
you.  But  I  was  a  boy  then,  and  have  long  known 
better  than  that.  I  am  a  poor,  maimed,  discharged 
soldier,  and  must  be  content  to  rub  through  life  as 
I  can.  I  can’t  say,  even  now,  that  I  shall  be  glad  to 
see  you  married,  Dolly;  but  I  am  glad — yes,  I  am, 
and  glad  to  think  I  can  say  so — to  know  that  you 
are  admired  and  courted,  and  can  pick  and  choose 
for  a  happy  life.  It’s  a  comfort  to  me  to  know  that 
you’ll  talk  to  your  husband  about  me ;  and  I  hope 
the  time  will  come  when  I  may  be  able  to  like  him, 
and  to  shake  hands  with  him,  and  to  come  and  see 
you  as  a  poor  friend  who  knew  you  when  you  were 
a  girl.  God  bless  you  !” 

His  hand  did  tremble ;  but  for  all  that,  he  took  it 
away  again,  and  left  her. 

- » 

CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

BY  this  Friday  night — for  it  was  on  Friday  in  the 
riot  week,  that  Emma  and  Dolly  were  rescued, 
by  the  timely  aid  of  Joe  and  Edward  Chester — the 
disturbances  were  entirely  quelled,  and  peace  and 
order  were  restored  to  the  affrighted  city.  True, 
after  what  had  happened,  it  was  impossible  for  any 
man  to  say  how  long  this  better  state  of  things  might 
last,  or  how  suddenly  new  outrages,  exceeding  even 
those  so  lately  witnessed,  might  burst  forth  and  fill 
its  streets  with  ruin  and  bloodshed ;  for  this  reason, 
those  who  had  fled  from  the  recent  tumults  still 
kept  at  a  distance,  and  many  families,  hitherto  un¬ 
able  to  procure  the  means  of  flight,  now  availed 
themselves  of  the  calm,  and  withdrew  into  the  coun¬ 
try.  The  shops,  too,  from  Tyburn  to  Whitechapel, 
were  still  shut ;  and  very  little  business  was  trans¬ 
acted  in  any  of  the  places  of  great  commercial  re¬ 
sort.  But,  notwithstanding,  and  in  spite  of  the  mel¬ 
ancholy  forebodings  of  that  numerous  class  of  so¬ 
ciety  who  see  with  the  greatest  clearness  into  the 
darkest  perspectives,  the  town  remained  profoundly 
quiet.  The  strong  military  force  disposed  in  every 
advantageous  quarter,  and  stationed  at  every  com¬ 
manding  point,  held  the  scattered  fragments  of  the 
mob  in  check ;  the  search  after  rioters  was  prose¬ 
cuted  with  unrelenting  vigor;  and  if  there  were 


any  among  them  so  desperate  and  reckless  as  to  be 
inclined,  after  the  terrible  scenes  they  had  beheld, 
to  venture  forth  again,  they  were  so  daunted  by 
these  resolute  measures,  that  they  quickly  shrunk 
into  their  hiding-places,  and  had  no  thought  but  for 
their  safety. 

In  a  word,  the  crowd  was  utterly  routed.  Upward 
of  two  hundred  had  been  shot  dead  in  the  streets. 
Two  hundred  and  fifty  more  were  lying,  badly  wound¬ 
ed,  in  the  hospitals ;  of  whom  seventy  or  eighty  died 
within  a  short  time  afterward.  A  hundred  were  al¬ 
ready  in  custody,  and  more  were  taken  every  hour. 
How  many  perished  in  the  conflagrations,  or  by  their 
own  excesses,  is  unknown  ;  but  that  numbers  found 
a  terrible  grave  in  the  hot  ashes  of  the  flames  they 
had  kindled,  or  crept  into  vaults  and  cellars  to  drink 
in  secret  or  to  nurse  their  sores,  and  never  saw  the 
light  again,  is  certain.  When  the  embers  of  the  fires 
had  been  black  and  cold  for  many  weeks,  the  la¬ 
borers’  spades  proved  this  beyond  a  doubt. 

Seventy-two  private  houses  and  four  strong  jails 
were  destroyed  in  the  four  great  days  of  these  riots. 
The  total  loss  of  property,  as  estimated  by  the  suf¬ 
ferers,  was  one  hundred  and  fifty -five  thousand 
pounds ;  at  the  lowest  and  least  partial  estimate  of 
disinterested  persons,  it  exceeded  one  hundred  and 
twenty -five  thousand  pounds.  For  this  immense 
loss,  compensation  was  soon  afterward  made  out  of 
the  public  purse,  in  pursuance  of  a  vote  of  the  House 
of  Commons ;  the  sum  being  levied  on  the  various 
wards  in  the  city,  on  the  county,  and  the  borough 
of  Southwark.  Both  Lord  Mansfield  and  Lord  Sa- 
ville,  however,  who  had  been  great  sufferers,  refused 
to  accept  of  any  compensation  whatever. 

The  House  of  Commons,  sitting  on  Tuesday  with 
locked  and  guarded  doors,  had  passed  a  resolution 
to  the  effect  that,  as  soon  as  the  tumults  subsided,  it 
would  immediately  proceed  to  consider  the  petitions 
presented  from  many  of  his  Majesty’s  Protestant  sub¬ 
jects,  and  would  take  the  same  into  its  serious  con¬ 
sideration.  While  this  question  was  under  debate, 
Mr.  Herbert,  one  of  the  members  present,  indignant¬ 
ly  rose  and  called  upon  the  House  to  observe  that 
Lord  George  Gordon  was  then  sitting  under  the  gal¬ 
lery  with  the  blue  cockade,  the  signal  of  rebellion, 
in  his  hat.  He  was  not  only  obliged,  by  those  who 
sat  near,  to  take  it  out ;  but  offering  to  go  into  the 
street  to  pacify  the  mob  with  the  somewhat  indefi¬ 
nite  assurance  that  the  House  was  prepared  to  give 
them  “  the  satisfaction  they  sought,”  was  actually 
held  down  in  his  seat  by  the  combined  force  of  sev¬ 
eral  members.  In  short,  the  disorder  and  violence 
which  reigned  triumphant  out-of-doors  penetrated 
into  the  senate,  and  there,  as  elsewhere,  terror  and 
alarm  prevailed,  and  ordinary  forms  were  for  the 
time  forgotten. 

On  the  Thursday,  both  Houses  had  adjourned  un¬ 
til  the  following  Monday  sennight,  declaring  it  im¬ 
possible  to  pursue  their  deliberations  with  the  neces¬ 
sary  gravity  and  freedom,  while  they  were  surround¬ 
ed  by  armed  troops.  And  now  that  the  rioters  were 
dispersed,  the  citizens  were  beset  with  a  new  fear ; 
for,  finding  the  public  thoroughfares  and  all  their 
usual  places  of  resort  filled  with  soldiers  intrusted 
with  the  free  use  of  fire  and  sword,  they  began  to 
lend  a  greedy  ear  to  the  rumors  which  were  afloat 


BARNABY  ANI)  HIS  MOTHER. 


235 


of  martial  law  being  declared,  and  to  dismal  stories 
of  prisoners  having  been  seen  hanging  on  lamp- 
posts  in  Cheapside  and  Fleet  Street.  These  terrors 
being  promptly  dispelled  by  a  Proclamation  declar¬ 
ing  all  the  rioters  in  custody  would  be  tried  by  a 
special  commission  iu  due  course  of  law,  a  fresh  alarm 
was  engendered  by  its  being  whispered  abroad  that 
French  money  had  been  found  on  some  of  the  riot¬ 
ers,  and  that  the  disturbances  had  been  fomented  by 
foreign  powers  who  sought  to  compass  the  over¬ 
throw  and  ruin  of  England.  This  report,  which  was 
strengthened  by  the  diffusion  of  anonymous  hand¬ 
bills,  but  which,  if  it  had  any  foundation  at  all, 
probably  owed  its  origin  to  the  circumstance  of 
some  few  coins  which  were  not  English  money  hav¬ 
ing  been  swept  into  the  pockets  of  the  insurgents 
with  other  miscellaneous  booty,  aud  kfterward  dis¬ 
covered  on  the  prisoners  or  the  dead  bodies — caused 
a  great  sensation ;  and  men’s  minds  being  in  that 
excited  state  when  they  are  most  apt  to  catch  at 
any  shadow  of  apprehension,  was  bruited  about  with 
much  industry. 

All  remaining  quiet,  however,  during  the  whole  of 
this  Friday,  and  on  this  Friday  night,  and  no  new 
discoveries  being  made,  confidence  began  to  be  re¬ 
stored,  and  the  most  timid  and  desponding  breathed 
again.  In  Southwark,  no  fewer  than  three  thou¬ 
sand  of  the  inhabitants  formed  themselves  into  a 
watch,  and  patrolled  the  streets  every  hour.  Nor 
were  the  citizens  slow  to  follow  so  good  an  example  ; 
and  it  being  the  manner  of  peaceful  men  to  be  very 
bold  when  the  danger  is  over,  they  were  abundant¬ 
ly  fierce  and  daring ;  not  scrupling  to  question  the 
stoutest  passenger  with  great  severity,  and  carrying 
it  with  a  very  high  hand  over  all  errand-boys,  serv¬ 
ant-girls,  and  ’prentices. 

As  day  deepened  into  evening,  and  darkness  crept 
into  the  nooks  and  corners  of  the  town  as  if  it  were 
mustering  in  secret  and  gathering  strength  to  vent¬ 
ure  into  the  open  ways,  Barnaby  sat  in  his  dungeon, 
wondering  at  the  silence,  and  listening  in  vain  for 
the  noise  and  outcry  which  had  ushered  in  the  night 
of  late.  Beside  him,  with  his  hand  in  hers,  sat  one 
in  whose  companionship  he  felt  at  peace.  She  was 
worn,  and  altered,  full  of  grief,  and  heavy-hearted ; 
but  the  same  to  him. 

“ Mother,”  he  said,  after  a  long  silence;  “how 
long — how  many  days  and  nights — shall  I  be  kept 
here  ?” 

“  Not  many,  dear.  I  hope  not  many.” 

“You  hope!  Ay, but  your  hopiug  will  not  undo 
these  chains.  I  hope,  but  they  don’t  mind  that. 
Grip  hopes,  but  who  cares  for  Grip  ?” 

The  raven  gave  a  short,  dull,  melancholy  croak. 
It  said  “  Nobody,”  as  plainly  as  a  croak  could  speak. 

“  Who  cares  for  Grip,  except  you  and  me  ?”  said 
•  Baruaby,  smoothing  the  bird’s  rumpled  feathers  with 
his  hand.  “  He  never  speaks  in  this  place ;  he  nev¬ 
er  says  a  word  iu  jail;  he  sits  and  mopes  all  day  in 
his  dark  corner,  dozing  sometimes,  and  sometimes 
lookiug  at  the  light  that  creeps  in  through  the  bars, 
and  shines  in  his  bright  eye  as  if  a  spark  from  those 
great  fires  had  fallen  into  the  room  and  was  burning 
yet.  But  who  cares  for  Grip  ?” 

The  raven-croaked  again — Nobody. 

“And  by- the- way,”  said  Barnaby,  withdrawing  his 


hand  from  the  bird,  and  laying  it  upon  his  mother’s 
arm,  as  he  looked  eagerly  in  her  face ;  “if  they  kill 
me — they  may :  I  heard  it  said  they  would — what 
will  become  of  Grip  when  I  am  dead  ?” 

The  sound  of  the  word,  or  the  current  of  his  own 
thoughts,  suggested  to  Grip  his  old  phrase,  “  Never 
say  die  !”  But  he  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  it, 
drew  a  dismal  cork,  and  subsided  into  a  faint  croak, 
as  if  he  lacked  the  heart  to  get  through  the  shortest 
sentence. 

“Will  they  take  his  life  as  well  as  mine?”  said 
Barnaby.  “  I  wish  they  would.  If  you  and  I  and 
he  could  die  together,  there  would  be  none  to  feel 
sorry,  or  to  grieve  for  us.  But  do  what  they  will,  I 
don’t  fear  them,  mother!” 

“They  will  not  harm  you,”  she  said,  her  tears 
choking  her  utterance.  “They  never  will  harm 
you,  when  they  know  all.  I  am  sure  they  never 
will.” 

“  Oh !  Don’t  be  too  sure  of  that,”  cried  Barnaby, 
with  a  strange  pleasure  in  the  belief  that  she  was 
self-deceived,  and  iu  his  own  sagacity.  “  They  have 
marked  me  from  the  first.  I  heard  them  say  so  to 
each  other  when  they  brought  me  to  this  place  last 
night ;  and  I  believe  them.  Don’t  you  cry  for  me. 
They  said  that  I  was  bold,  and  so  I  am,  and  so  I  will 
be.  You  may  think  that  I  am  silly,  but  I  can  die  as 
well  as  another — I  have  done  no  harm,  have  I  ?”  he 
added,  quickly. 

“  Noue  before  Heaven,”  she  answered. 

“Why,  then,”  said  Barnaby,  “let  them  do  their 
worst.  You  told  me  once — you — when  I  asked  you 
what  death  meant,  that  it  was  nothing  to  be  feared, 
if  we  did  no  harm —  Aha!  mother,  you  thought  I 
had  forgotten  that !” 

His  merry  laugh  and  playful  manner  smote  her  to 
the  heart.  She  drew  him  closer  to  her,  and  besought 
him  to  talk  to  her  in  whispers  and  to  be  very  quiet, 
for  it  was  getting  dark,  and  their  time  was  short,  and 
she  would  soon  have  to  leave  him  for  the  night. 

“  You  will  come  to-morrow  ?”  said  Barnaby. 

Yes.  And  every  day.  And  they  would  never  part 
again. 

He  joyfully  replied  that  this  was  well,  and  what 
he  wished,  and  what  he  had  felt  quite  certain  she 
would  tell  him ;  and  then  he  asked  her  where  she 
had  been  so  long,  and  why  she  had  not  come  to  see 
him  when  he  had  been  a  great  soldier,  and  ran 
through  the  wild  schemes  he  had  had  for  their  be¬ 
ing  rich  and  living  prosperously,  and  with  some 
faint  notion  in  his  mind  that  she  was  sad,  and  he 
had  made  her  so,  tried  to  console  and  comfort  her, 
and  talked  of  their  former  life  and  his  old  sports 
and  freedom :  little  dreaming  that  every  word  he 
uttered  only  increased  her  sorrow,  and  that  her  tears 
fell  faster  at  the  freshened  recollection  of  their  lost 
tranquillity. 

“Mother,”  said  Barnaby,  as  they  heard  the  man 
approaching  to  close  the  cells  for  the  night,  “  when 
I  spoke  to  you  just  now  about  my  father  you  cried 
‘  Hush !’  and  turned  away  your  head.  Why  did  you 
do  so  ?  Tell  me  why,  in  a  word.  You  thought  he 
was  dead.  You  are  not  sorry  that  he  is  alive  and 
has  come  back  to  us.  Where  is  he  ?  Here  ?” 

“Do  not  ask  any  one  where  he  is,  or  speak  about 
him,”  she  made  answer. 


236 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


“  Why  not  ?”  said  Barnaby.  “  Because  he  is  a 
stern  man,  and  talks  roughly?  Well!  I  don’t  like 
him,  or  want  to  be  with  him  by  myself;  but  why 
not  speak  about  him  ?” 

“  Because  I  am  sorry  that  he  is  alive ;  sorry  that 
he  has  come  back ;  and  sorry  that  he  and  you  have 
ever  met.  Because;  dear  Barnaby,  the  endeavor  of 
my  life  has  been  to  keep  you  two  asunder.” 

“  Father  and  son  asunder !  Why  ?” 

“  He  has,”  she  whispered  in  his  ear, “  he  has  shed 
blood.  The  time  has  come  when  you  must  know  it. 
He  has  shed  the  blood  of  one  who  loved  him  well, 
and  trusted  him,  and  never  did  him  wrong  in  word 
or  deed.” 

Barnaby  recoiled  in  horror,  and  glancing  at  his 
stained  wrist  for  an  instant,  wrapped  it,  shuddering, 
in  his  dress. 

“  But,”  she  added  hastily,  as  the  key  turned  in  the 
lock,  “  although  we  shun  him,  he  is  your  father,  dear¬ 
est,  and  I  am  his  wretched  wife.  They  seek  his  life, 
and  he  will  lose  it.  It  must  not  be  by  our  means ; 
nay,  if  we  could  win  him  back  to  penitence,  we  should 
be  bound  to  love  him  yet.  Do  not  seem  to  know  him, 
except  as  one  who  fled  with  you  from  the  jail,  and 
if  they  question  you  about  him,  do  not  answer  them. 
God  be  with  you  through  the  night,  dear  boy !  God 
be  with  you !” 

She  tore  herself  away,  and  in  a  few  seconds  Bar¬ 
naby  was  alone.  He  stood  for  a  long  time  rooted  to 
the  spot,  with  his  face  hidden  in  his  hands ;  then 
flung  himself,  sobbing,  on  his  miserable  bed. 

But  the  moon  came  slowly  up  in  all  her  gentle 
glory,  and  the  stars  looked  out,  and  through  the 
small  compass  of  the  grated  window,  as  through  the 
narrow  crevice  of  oue  good  deed  in  a  murky  life  of 
guilt,  the  face  of  Heaven  shone  bright  and  merciful. 
He  raised  his  head ;  gazed  upward  at  the  quiet  sky, 
which  seemed  to  smile  upon* the  earth  in  sadness,  as 
if  the  night,  more  thoughtful  than  the  day,  looked 
down  in  sorrow  on  the  sufferings  and  evil  deeds  of 
men ;  and  felt  its  peace  sink  deep  into  his  heart. 
He,  a  poor  idiot,  caged  in  his  narrow  cell,  was  as 
much  lifted  up  to  God,  while  gazing  on  the  mild 
light,  as  the  freest  and  most  favored  man  in  all  the 
spacious  city;  and  in  his  ill-remembered  prayer,  and 
in  the  fragment  of  the  childish  hymn,  with  which 
he  sung  and  crooned  himself  asleep,  there  breathed 
as  true  a  spirit  as  ever  studied  homily  expressed,  or 
old  cathedral  arches  echoed. 

As  his  mother  crossed  a  yard  on  her  way  out,  she 
saw,  through  a  grated  door  which  separated  it  from 
another  court,  her  husband,  walking  round  and  round, 
with  his  hands  folded  on  his  breast,  and  his  head  hung 
down.  She  asked  the  man  who  conducted  her,  if  she 
might  speak  a  word  with  the  prisoner.  Yes,  but  she 
must  be  quick,  for  he  was  locking  up  for  the  night, 
and  there  was  but  a  minute  or  so  to  spare.  Saying 
this,  he  unlocked  the  door,  and  bade  her  go  in. 

It  grated  harshly  as  it  turned  upon  its  hinges,  but 
lie  was  deaf  to  the  noise,  and  still  walked  round  and 
round  the  little  court,  without  raising  his  head  or 
changing  his  attitude  in  the  least.  She  spoke  to 
him,  but  her  voice  was  weak,  and  failed  her.  At 
length  she  put  herself  in  his  track,  and  when  he 
came  near,  stretched  out  her  hand  and  touched  him. 

He  started  backward,  trembling  from  head  to 


foot;  but  seeing  who  it  was,  demanded  why  she 
came  there.  Before  she  could  reply,  he  spoke  again. 

“Am  I  to  live  or  die?  Do  you  murder  too,  oj 

spare  ?” 

“My  son  —  our  son,”  she  answered,  “is  in  this 
prison.” 

“  What  is  that  to  me  ?”  he  cried,  stamping  impa¬ 
tiently  on  the  stone  pavement.  “I  know  it.  He 
can  no  more  aid  me  than  I  can  aid  him.  If  you  are 
come  to  talk  of  him,  begone  !” 

As  he  spoke  he  resumed  his  walk,  and  hurried 
round  the  court  as  before.  When  he  came  again  to 
where  she  stood,  he  stopped,  and  said, 

“Ami  to  live  or  die  ?  Do  you  repent  ?” 

“  Oh ! — do  you  ?”  she  answered.  “  Will  you,  while 
time  remains?  Do  not  believe  that  I  could  save 
you,  if  I  dared!” 

“  Say  if  you  would,”  he  answered  with  an  oath, 
as  he  tried  to  disengage  himself  and  pass  on.  “  Say 
if  you  would.” 

“  Listen  to  me  for  one  moment,”  she  returned ;  “  for 
but  a  moment.  I  am  but  newly  risen  from  a  sick¬ 
bed,  from  which  I  never  hoped  to  rise  again.  The 
best  among  us  think,  at  such  a  time,  of  good  inten¬ 
tions  half  performed  and  duties  left  undone.  If  I 
have  ever,  since  that  fatal  night,  omitted  to  pray  for 
your  repentance  before  death — if  I  omitted,  even 
then,  any  thing  which  might  tend  to  urge  it  on  you 
when  the  horror  of  your  crime  was  fresh — if,  in  our 
later  meeting,  I  yielded  to  the  dread  that  was  upon 
me,  and  forgot  to  fall  upon  my  knees  and  solemnly 
adjure  you,  in  the  name  of  him  you  sent  to  his  ac¬ 
count  with  Heaven,  to  prepare  for  the  retribution 
which  must  come,  and  which  is  stealing  on  you  now 
— I  humbly  before  you,  and  in  the  agony  of  suppli¬ 
cation  in  which  you  see  me,  beseech  that  you  will  let 
me  make  atonement.” 

“  What  is  the  meaning  of  your  canting  words  ?” 
he  answered,  roughly.  “  Speak  so  that  I  may  un¬ 
derstand  you.” 

“  I  will,”  she  answered ;  “  I  desire  to.  Bear  with 
me  for  a  moment  more.  The  hand  of  Him  who  set 
His  curse  on  murder,  is  heavy  on  us  now.  You  can 
not  doubt  it.  Our  son,  our  innocent  boy,  on  whom 
His  anger  fell  before  his  birth,  is  in.  this  place  in 
peril  of  his  life — brought  here  by  your  guilt ;  yes, 
by  that  alone,  as  Heaven  sees  and  knows,  for  he  has 
been  led  astray  in  the  darkness  of  his  intellect,  and 
that  is  the  terrible  consequence  of  your  crime.” 

“  If  you  come,  woman-like,  to  load  me  with  re¬ 
proaches —  ”  he  muttered,  again  endeavoring  to 
break  away. 

“I  do  not.  I  have  a  diflerent  purpose.  You  must 
hear  it.  If  not  to-night,  to-morrow  ;  if  not  to-mor¬ 
row,  at  another  time.  You  must  hear  it.  Husband, 
escape  is  hopeless — impossible.” 

“You  tell  me  so,  do  you?”  he  said,  raising  his* 
manacled  hand,  and  shaking  it.  “You  !” 

“Yes,”  she  said,  with  indescribable  earnestness. 

“  But  why  ?” 

“  To  make  me  easy  in  this  jail.  To  make  the 
time  ’twixt  this  and  death  pass  pleasantly.  For 
my  good — yes,  for  my  good,  of  course,”  he  said, 
grinding  his  teeth,  and  smiling  at  her  with  a  livid 
face. 

“  Not  to  load  you  with  reproaches,”  she  replied ; 


HUSBAND  AND  WIFE. 


237 


“  not  to  aggravate  the  tortures  and  miseries  of  your 
condition,  not  to  give  you  one  hard  word,  but  to  re¬ 
store  you  to  peace  and  hope.  Husband,  dear  hus¬ 
band,  if  you  will  but  confess  this  dreadful  crime  ;  if 
you  will  but  implore  forgiveness  of  Heaven  and  of 
those  whom  you  have  wronged  on  earth  ;  if  you  will 
dismiss  these  vain  uneasy  thoughts,  which  never  can 
be  realized,  and  will  rely  on  penitence  and  on  the 
truth,  I  promise  you,  in  the  great  name  of  the  Cre¬ 
ator,  whose  image  you  have  defaced,  that  He  will 
comfort  and  console  you.  And  for  myself,”  she  cried, 
clasping  her  hands,  and  looking  upward,  “  I  swear 
before  Him,  as  He  knows  my  heart  and  reads  it  now, 
that  from  that  hour  I  will  love  and  cherish  you  as  I 
did  of  old,  and  watch  you  night  and  day  in  the  short 
interval  that  will  remain  to  us,  and  soothe  you  with 
my  truest  love  and  duty,  and  pray  with  you,  that 
one  threatening  judgment  may  be  arrested,  and  that 
our  boy  may  be  spared  to  bless  God,  in  his  poor  way, 
in  the  free  air  and  light  !” 

He  fell  back  and  gazed  at  her  while  she  poured 
out  these  words,  as  though  he  were  for  a  moment 
awed  by  her  manner,  and  knew  not  what  to  do. 
But  anger  and  fear  soon  got  the  mastery  of  him,  and 
he  spurned  her  from  him. 

“  Begone  !”  he  cried.  “  Leave  me  !  You  plot,  do 
you  ?  You  plot  to  get  speech  with  me,  and  let  them 
kuow  I  am  the  man  they  say  I  am.  A  curse  on  you 
and  on  your  boy.” 

“  Ou  him  the  curse  has  already  fallen,”  she  replied, 
wringing  her  hands. 

“Let  it  fall  heavier.  Let  it  fall  ou  one  and  all. 
I  hate  you  both.  The  worst  has  come  to  me.  The 
only  comfort  that  I  seek  or  I  can  have,  will  be  the 
knowledge  that  it  comes  to  you.  Now  go !” 

She  would  have  urged  him  gently,  even  then,  but 
he  menaced  her  with  his  chain. 

“I  say  go  —  I  say  it  for  the  last  time.  The  gal¬ 
lows  has  me  in  its  grasp,  and  it  is  a  black  phantom 
that  may  urge  me  on  to  something  more.  Begone ! 
I  curse  the  hour  that  I  was  born,  the  man  I  slew, 
and  all  the  living  world !” 

In  a  paroxysm  of  wrath,  and  terror,  and  the  fear 
of  death,  he  broke  from  her,  and  rushed  iuto  the 
darkness  of  his  cell,  where  he  cast  himself  jangling 
down  upon  the  stone  floor,  and  smote  it  with  his  iron 
hands.  The  man  returned  to  lock  the  dungeon 
door,  and  having  done  so,  carried  her  away. 

On  that  warm,  balmy  night  in  June,  there  were 
glad  faces  and  light  hearts  in  all  quarters  of  the 
town,  and  sleep,  banished  by  the  late  horrors,  was 
doubly  welcomed.  On  that  night,  families  made 
merry  in  their  houses,  and  greeted  each  other  on  the 
common  danger  they  had  escaped;  and  those  who 
had  been  denounced,  ventured  iuto  the  streets ;  and 
they  who  had  been  plundered,  got  good  shelter. 
Even  the  timorous  Lord  Mayor,  who  was  summoned 
that  night  before  the  Privy  Council  to  answer  for 
his  conduct,  came  back  contented;  observing  to  all 
his  friends  that  he  had  got  off  very  well  with  a  rep¬ 
rimand,  and  repeating  with  huge  satisfaction  his 
memorable  defense  before  the  Council,  “  that  such 
was  his  temerity,  he  thought  death  would  have 
been  his  portion.” 

On  that  night,  too,  more  of  the  scattered  remnants 
of  the  mob  were  traced  to  their  lurking-places,  and 


taken ;  and  in  the  hospitals,  and  deep  among  the 
ruins  they  had  made,  and  in  the  ditches  and  fields, 
many  unshrouded  wretches  lay  dead;  envied  by  those 
who  had  been  active  in  the  disturbances,  and  who 
pillowed  their  doomed  heads  in  the  temporary  jails. 

And  in  the  Tower,  in  a  dreary  room  whose  thick 
stone  walls  shut  out  the  hum  of  life,  and  made  a 
stillness  which  the  records  left  by  former  prisoners 
with  those  silent  witnesses  seemed  to  deepen  and  in¬ 
tensify  ;  remorseful  for  every  act  that  had  been  done 
by  every  man  among  the  cruel  crowd ;  feeling  for 
the  time  their  guilt  his  own,  and  their  lives  put  in 
peril  by  himself;  and  finding,  amidst  such  reflec¬ 
tions,  little  comfort  in  fanaticism,  or  in  his  fancied 
call;  sat  the  unhappy  author  of  all — Lord  George 
Gordon. 

He  had  been  made  prisoner  that  evening.  “  If 
you  are  sure  it’s  me  you  want,”  he  said  to  the  officers, 
who  waited  outside  with  the  warrant  for  his  arrest 
on  a  charge  of  High  Treason,  “  I  am  ready  to  accom¬ 
pany  you — ”  which  he  did  without  resistance.  He 
was  conducted  first  before  the  Privy  Council,  and 
afterward  to  the  Horse  Guards,  and  then  was  taken 
by  way  of  Westminster  Bridge,  and  back  over  Lon¬ 
don  Bridge  (for  the  purpose  of  avoiding  the  main 
streets),  to  the  Tower,  under  the  strongest  guard 
ever  known  to  enter  its  gates  with  a  single  prisoner. 

Of  all  his  forty  thousand  men,  not  one  remained 
to  bear  him  company.  Friends,  dependents,  follow¬ 
ers — none  were  there.  His  fawning  secretary  had 
played  the  traitor ;  and  he  whose  weakness  had  been 
goaded  and  urged  on  by  so  many  for  their  own  pur¬ 
poses,  was  desolate  and  alone. 


CHAPTER  LXXIY. 

MR.  DENNIS,  having  been  made  prisoner  late  in 
the  evening,  was  removed  to  a  neighboring- 
round -house  for  that  night,  and  carried  before  a 
justice  for  examination  ou  the  next  day,  Saturday. 
The  charges  against  him  being  numerous  and  weigh¬ 
ty,  and  it  being  in  particular  proved,  by  the  testi¬ 
mony  of  Gabriel  Yarden,  that  he  had  shown  a  special 
desire  to  take  his  life,  he  was  committed  for  trial. 
Moreover,  he  was  honored  with  the  distinction  of 
being  considered  a  chief  among  the  insurgents,  and 
received  from  the  magistrate’s  lips  the  compliment¬ 
ary  assurance  that  he  was  in  a  position  of  imminent 
dauger,  and  would  do  well  to  prepare  himself  for 
the  worst. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Dennis’s  modesty  was  not  some- 
w  hat  startled  by  these  honors,  or  that  he  was  alto¬ 
gether  prepared  for  so  flattering  a  reception,  would 
be  to  claim  for  him  a  greater  amount  of  stoical  phi¬ 
losophy  than  even  he  possessed.  Indeed  this  gentle¬ 
man’s  stoicism  wras  of  that  not  uncommon  kind  which 
enables  a  man  to  bear  with  exemplary  fortitude  the 
afflictions  of  his  friends,  but  renders  him,  by  way  of 
counterpoise,  rather  selfish  and  sensitive  in  respect 
of  any  that  happen  to  befall  himself.  It  is  therefore 
no  disparagement  to  the  great  officer  in  question  to 
state,  without  disguise  or  coucealment,  that  he  was 
at  first  very  much  alarmed,  and  that  he  betrayed 
divers  emotions  of  fear,  until  his  reasoning  powers 


238 


BARNABY  BUDGE . 


came  to  his  relief,  and  set  before  him  a  more  hope¬ 
ful  prospect. 

In  proportion  as  Mr.  Dennis  exercised  these  in¬ 
tellectual  qualities  with  which  he  was  gifted,  in  re¬ 
viewing  his  best  chances  of  coming  off  handsomely 
and  with  small  personal  inconvenience,  his  spirits 
rose,  and  his  confidence  increased.  When  he  re¬ 
membered  the  great  estimation  in  which  his  office 
was  held,  and  the  constant  demand  for  his  services ; 
when  he  bethought  himself,  how  the  Statute  Book 
regarded  him  as  a  kind  of  Universal  Medicine  ap¬ 
plicable  to  men,  women,  and  children,  of  every  age 
and  variety  of  criminal  constitution  ;  and  how  high 
he  stood,  in  his  official  capacity,  in  the  favor  of  the 
Crown,  and  both  Houses  of  Parliament,  the  Mint,  the 
Bank  of  England,  and  the  Judges  of  the  land ;  when 
he  recollected  that  whatever  Ministry  was  in  or  out, 
he  remained  their  peculiar  pet  and  panacea,  and 
that  for  his  sake  England  stood  siugle  and  conspic¬ 
uous  among  the  civilized  nations  of  the  earth ;  when 
he  called  these  things  to  mind  and  dwelt  upon  them, 
he  felt  certain  that  the  national  gratitude  must  re¬ 
lieve  him  from  the  consequences  of  his  late  proceed¬ 
ings,  and  would  certainly  restore  him  to  his  old  place 
in  the  happy  social  system. 

With  these  crumbs,  or  as  one  may  say,  with  these 
whole  loaves  of  comfort  to  regale  upon,  Mr.  Dennis 
took  his  place  among  the  escort  that  awaited  him, 
and  repaired  to  jail  with  a  manly  indifference.  Ar¬ 
riving  at  Newgate,  where  some  of  the  ruined  cells 
had  been  hastily  fitted  up  for  the  safe-keeping  of 
rioters,  he  was  warmly  received  by  the  turnkeys,  as 
an  unusual  and  interesting  case,  which  agreeably 
relieved  their  monotonous  duties.  In  this  spirit,  he 
was  fettered  with  great  care,  and  conveyed  into  the 
interior  of  the  prison. 

“  Brother,”  cried  the  hangman,  as,  following  an 
officer,  he  traversed  under  these  novel  circumstances 
the  remains  of  passages  with  which  he  was  well  ac¬ 
quainted,  “  am  I  going  to  be  along  with  any  body  ?” 

“  If  you’d  have  left  more  walls  standing,  you’d 
have  been  alone,”  was  the  reply.  “As  it  is,  we’re 
cramped  for  room,  and  you’ll  have  company.” 

“  Well,”  returned  Dennis,  “I  don’t  object  to  com¬ 
pany,  brother.  I  rather  like  company.  I  was  form¬ 
ed  for  society,  I  was.” 

“  That’s  rather  a  pity,  an’t  it  ?”  said  the  man. 

“  No,”  answered  Dennis,  “  I’m  not  aware  that  it  is. 
Why  should  it  be  a  pity,  brother  ?” 

“  Oh !  I  don’t  know,”  said  the  man,  carelessly.  “ 1 
thought  that  was  what  you  meant.  Being  formed 
for  society,  and  being  cut  off  in  your  flower,  you 
know — ” 

“  I  say,”  interposed  the  other  quickly,  “  what  are 
you  talking  of?  Don’t.  Who’s  agoing  to  be  cut  off 
in  their  flowers  ?” 

“  Oh,  nobody  particular.  I  thought  you  was,  per¬ 
haps,”  said  the  man. 

Mr.  Dennis  wiped  his  face,  which  had  suddenly 
grown  very  hot,  and  remarking  in  a  tremulous  voice 
to  his  conductor  that  he  had  always  been  fond  of  his 
joke,  followed  him  in  silence  until  he  stopped  at  a 
door. 

“  This  is  my  quarters,  is  it  ?”  he  asked,  facetiously. 

“  This  is  the  shop,  sir,”  replied  his  frieud. 

He  was  walking  in,  but  not  with  the  best  pos¬ 


sible  grace,  when  he  suddenly  stopped,  and  started 
back. 

“  Halloo !”  said  the  officer.  “  You’re  nervous.” 

“Nervous!”  whispered  Dennis,  in  great  alarm. 
“  Well  I  may  be.  Shut  the  door.” 

“  I  will,  when  you’re  in,”  returned  the  man. 

“  But  I  can’t  go  in  there,”  whispered  Dennis.  “  I 
can’t  be  shut  up  with  that  man.  Do  you  want  me 
to  be  throttled,  brother  ?” 

The  officer  seemed  to  entertain  no  particular  de¬ 
sire  on  the  subject  one  way  or  other,  but  briefly 
remarking  that  he  had  his  orders,  and  intended  to 
obey  them,  pushed  him  in,  turned  the  key,  and  re¬ 
tired. 

Dennis  stood  trembling  with  his  back  against  the 
door,  and  involuntarily  raising  his  arm  to  defend 
himself,  stared  at  a  man,  the  only  other  tenant  of 
the  cell,  who  lay,  stretched  at  his  full  length,  upon 
a  stone  bench,  and  who  paused  in  his  deep  breathing 
as  if  he  were  about  to  wake.  But  he  rolled  over  on 
one  side,  let  his  arm  fall  negligently  down,  drew  a 
long  sigh,  and  murmuring  indistinctly,  fell  fast  asleep 
again. 

Relieved  in  some  degree  by  this,  the  hangman 
took  his  eyes  for  an  instant  from  the  slumbering 
figure,  and  glanced  round  the  cell  in  search  of  some 
’vantage-ground  or  weapon  of  defense.  There  was 
nothing  movable  within  it,  but  a  clumsy  table 
which  could  not  be  displaced  without  noise,  and  a 
heavy  chair.  Stealing  on  tiptoe  toward  this  latter 
piece  of  furniture,  he  retired  with  it  into  the  re¬ 
motest  corner,  and  intrenching  himself  behind  it, 
watched  the  enemy  with  the  utmost  vigilance  and 
caution. 

The  sleeping  man  was  Hugh ;  and  perhaps  it  was 
not  unnatural  for  Dennis  to  feel  in  a  state  of  very 
uncomfortable  suspense,  and  to  wish  with  his  whole 
soul  that  he  might  never  wake  again.  Tired  of 
standing,  he  crouched  down  in  his  corner  after  some 
time,  and  rested  on  the  cold  pavement ;  but  although 
Hugh’s  breathing  still  proclaimed  that  he  was  sleep¬ 
ing  soundly,  he  could  not  trust  him  out  of  his  sight 
for  an  instant.  He  was  so  afraid  of  him,  and  of  some 
sudden  onslaught,  that  he  was  not  content  to  see  his 
closed  eyes  through  the  chair-back,  but  every  now 
and  then,  rose  stealthily  to  his  feet,  and  peered  at 
him  with  outstretched  neck,  to  assure  himself  that  he 
really  was  still  asleep,  and  was  not  about  to  spring 
upon  him  when  he  was  off  his  guard. 

He  slept  so  long  and  so  soundly,  that  Mr.  Dennis 
began  to  think  he  might  sleep  on  until  the  turnkey 
visited  them.  He  was  congratulating  himself  upon 
these  promising  appearances,  and  blessing  his  stars 
with  much  fervor,  when  one  or  two  unpleasant 
symptoms  manifested  themselves:  such  as  another 
motion  of  the  arm,  another  sigh,  a  restless  tossing 
of  the  head.  Then,  just  as  it  seemed  that  he  was 
about  to  fall  heavily  to  the  ground  from  his  narrow 
bed,  Hugh’s  eyes  opened. 

It  happened  that  his  face  was  turned  directly  to¬ 
ward  his  unexpected  visitor.  He  looked  lazily  at 
him  for  some  half-dozen  seconds  without  any  aspect 
of  surprise  or  recognition  ;  then  suddenly  jumped 
up,  and  with  a  great  oath  pronounced  his  name. 

“Keep  off,  brother,  keep  oft'!”  cried  Dennis,  dodg¬ 
ing  behind  the  chair.  “  Don’t  do  me  a  mischief. 


THE  HANGMAN  JUSTIFIES  HIMSELF. 


239 


I’m  a  prisoner  like  you.  I  haven’t  the  free  use 
of  my  limbs.  I’m  quite  an  old  man.  Don’t  hurt 
me !” 

He  whined  out  the  last  three  words  in  such  pite¬ 
ous  accents,  that  Hugh,  who  had  dragged  away  the 
chair,  and  aimed  a  blow  at  him  with  it,  checked 
himself,  and  bade  him  get  up. 

“  I’ll  get  up  certainly,  brother,”  cried  Dennis,  anx¬ 
ious  to  propitiate  him  by  any  means  in  his  power. 
“I’ll  comply  with  any  request  of  yours,  I’m  sure. 
There — I’m  up  now.  What  can  I  do  for  you? 
Only  say  the  word,  and  I’ll  do  it.” 

“  What  can  you  do  for  me !”  cried  Hugh,  clutching 
him  by  the  collar  with  both  hands,  and  shaking  him 
as  though  he  were  bent  on  stopping  his  breath  by 
that  means.  “  What  have  you  done  for  me  ?” 

“  The  best.  The  best  that  could  be  done,”  return¬ 
ed  the  hangman. 

Hugh  made  him  no  answer,  but  shaking  him  in  his 
strong  gripe  until  his  teeth  chattered  in  his  head, 
cast  him  down  upon  the  floor,  and  flung  himself  on 
the  bench  again. 

“  If  it  wasn’t  for  the  comfort  it  is  to  me,  to  see  you 
here,”  he  muttered,  “  I’d  have  crushed  your  head 
against  it ;  I  would.” 

It  was  some  time  before  Dennis  had  breath  enough 
to  speak,  but  as  soon  as  he  could  resume  his  propitia¬ 
tory  strain,  he  did  so. 

“  I  did  the  best  that  could  be  done,  brother,”  he 
whined ;  “  I  did  indeed.  I  was  forced  with  two 
bayonets  and  I  don’t  know  how  many  bullets  on 
each  side  of  me,  to  point  you  out.  If  you  hadn’t 
been  taken,  you’d  have  been  shot;  and  what  a 
sight  that  would  have  been — a  fine  young  man  like 
you !” 

“Will  it  be  a  better  sight  now?”  asked  Hugh, 
raising  his  head,  with  such  a  fierce  expression,  that 
the  other  durst  not  answer  him  just  then. 

“A  deal  better,”  said  Dennis  meekly,  after  a 
pause.  “  First,  there’s  all  the  chances  of  the  law,  and 
they’re  five  hundred  strong.  We  may  get  off  scot- 
free.  Unlikelier  things  than  that  have  come  to  pass. 
Even  if  we  shouldn’t,  and  the  chances  fail,  we  can 
but  be  worked  off  once ;  and  when  it’s  well  done, 
it’s  so  neat,  so  skillful,  so  captiwating,  if  that  don’t 
seem  too  strong  a  word,  that  you’d  hardly  believe  it 
could  be  brought  to  sich  perfection.  Kill  one’s  fel- 
low-creeturs  off,  with  muskets ! — pah !”  and  his  na¬ 
ture  so  revolted  at  the  bare  idea,  that  he  spat  upon 
the  dungeon  pavement. 

His  warming  on  this  topic,  which  to  one  unac¬ 
quainted  with  his  pursuits  and  tastes  appeared  like 
courage  ;  together  with  his  artful  suppression  of  his 
own  secret  hopes,  and  mention  of  himself  as  being  in 
the  same  condition  with  Hugh ;  did  more  to  soothe 
that  ruffian  than  the  most  elaborate  arguments  could 
have  done,  or  the  most  abject  submission.  He  rest¬ 
ed  his  arms  upon  his  knees,  and  stooping  forward, 
looked  from  beneath  his  shaggy  hair  at  Dennis,  with 
something  of  a  smile  upon  his  face. 

“  The  fact  is,  brother,”  said  the  hangman,  in  a  tone 
of  greater  confidence,  “  that  you  have  got  into  bad 
company.  The  man  that  was  with  you  was  looked 
after  more  than  you,  and  it  was  him  I  wanted.  As 
to  me,  what  have  I  got  by  it  ?  Here  we  are,  in  one 
and  the  same  plight.” 


“  Lookee,  rascal,”  said  Hugh,  contracting  his 
brows,  “  I’m  not  altogether  such  a  shallow  blade  but 
I  know  you  expected  to  get  something  by  it,  or  you 
wouldn’t  have  done  it.  But  it’s  done,  and  you’re 
here,  and  it  will  soon  be  all  over  with  you  and  me ; 
and  I’d  as  soon  die  as  live,  or  live  as  die.  Why 
should  I  trouble  myself  to  have  revenge  on  you  ? 
To  eat,  and  drink,  and  go  to  sleep,  as  long  as  I  stay 
here,  is  all  I  care  for.  If  there  was  but  a  little  more 
sun  to  bask  in  than  can  find  its  wav  into  this  cursed 
place,  I’d  lie  in  it  all  day,  and  not  trouble  myself  to 
sit  or  stand  up  once.  That’s  all  the  care  I  have  for 
myself.  Why  should  I  care  for  youV1 

Finishing  this  speech  with  a  growl  like  the  yawn 
of  a  wild  beast,  he  stretched  himself  upon  the  bench 
again,  and  closed  his  eyes  once  more. 

After  looking  at  him  in  silence  for  some  moments, 
Dennis,  who  was  greatly  relieved  to  find  him  in  this 
mood,  drew  the  chair  toward  his  rough  couch  and 
sat  down  near  him — taking  the  precaution,  however, 
to  keep  out  of  the  range  of  his  brawny  arm. 

“  Well  said,  brother ;  nothing  could  be  better 
said,”  he  ventured  to  observe.  “We’ll  eat  and  drink 
of  the  best,  and  sleep  our  best,  and  make  the  best 
of  it  every  way.  Any  thing  can  be  got  for  money. 
Let’s  spend  it  merrily.” 

“Ay,”  said  Hugh,  coiling  himself  into  a  new  posi¬ 
tion.  “  Where  is  it  ?” 

“  Why,  they  took  mine  from  me  at  the  lodge,”  said 
Mr.  Dennis;  “  but  mine’s  a  peculiar  case.” 

“  Is  it  ?  They  took  mine  too.” 

“  Why  then,  I  tell  you  what,  brother,”  Dennis  be¬ 
gan.  “  You  must  look  up  your  friends — ” 

“My  friends  !”  cried  Hugh,  starting  up  and  resting 
on  his  hands.  “  Where  are  my  friends  ?” 

“  Your  relations  then,”  said  Dennis. 

“Ha,  ha,  ha!”  laughed  Hugh,  waving  one  arm 
above  his  head.  “  He  talks  of  friends  to  me — talks 
of  relations  to  a  man  whose  mother  died  the  death  in 
store  for  her  son,  and  left  him,  a  hungry  brat,  with¬ 
out  a  face  he  knew  in  all  the  world !  He  talks  of 
this  to  me !” 

“  Brother,”  cried  the  hangman,  whose  features 
underwent  a  sudden  change,  “you  don’t  mean  to 
say — ” 

“  I  mean  to  say,”  Hugh  interposed,  “  that  they 
hung  her  up  at  Tyburn.  What  was  good  enough 
for  her,  is  good  enough  for  me.  Let  them  do  the 
like  by  me  as  soon  as  they  please — the  sooner  the 
better.  Say  no  more  to  me.  I’m  going  to  sleep.” 

“  But  I  want  to  speak  to  you  ;  I  want  to  hear  more 
about  that,”  said  Dennis,  changing  color. 

“  If  you’re  a  wise  man,”  growled  Hugh,  raising  his 
head  to  look  at  him  with  a  frown,  “  you’ll  hold  your 
tongue.  I  tell  you  I’m  going  to  sleep.” 

Dennis  venturing  to  say  something  more  in  spite 
of  this  caution,  the  desperate  fellow  struck  at  him 
with  all  his  force,  and  missing  him,  lay  down  again 
with  many  muttered  oaths  and  inprecations,  and 
turned  his  face  toward  the  wall.  After  two  or  three 
ineffectual  twitches  at  his  dress,  which  he  was  hardy 
enough  to  venture  upon,  notwithstanding  his  danger- 
our  humor,  Mr.  Dennis,  who  burned,  for  reasons  of 
his  own,  to  pursue  the  conversation,  had  no  alterna¬ 
tive  but  to  sit  as  patiently  as  he  could,  waiting  his 
farther  pleasure. 


240 


BABNABY  BTJDGE. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

MONTH  has  elapsed  —  and  we  stand  in  the 
bed-chamber  of  Sir  John  Chester.  Through 
the  half-opened  window,  the  Temple  Garden  looks 
green  and  pleasant ;  the  placid  river,  gay  with  boat 
and  barge,  and  dimpled  with  the  plash  of  many  an 
oar,  sparkles  in  the  distance ;  the  sky  is  blue  and 
clear ;  and  the  summer  air  steals  gently  in,  filling 
the  room  with  perfume.  The  very  town,  the  smoky 
town,  is  radiant.  High  roofs  and  steeple-tops,  wont 
to  look  black  and  sullen,  smile  a  cheerful  gray ;  ev¬ 
ery  old  gilded  vane,  and  ball,  and  cross,  glitters  anew 
in  the  bright  morning  sun ;  and,  high  among  them 
all,  St.  Paul’s  towers  up,  showing  its  lofty  crest  in 
burnished  gold. 

Sir  John  was  breakfasting  in  bed.  His  chocolate 
and  toast  stood  upon  a  little  table  at  his  elbow ; 
books- and  newspapers  lay  ready  to  his  hand,  upon 
the  coverlet ;  and,  sometimes  pausing  to  glance  with 
an  air  of  tranquil  satisfaction  round  the  well-ordered 
room,  and  sometimes  to  gaze  indolently  at  the  sum¬ 
mer  sky,  he  ate,  and  drank,  and  read  the  news  lux¬ 
uriously. 

The  cheerful  influence  of  the  morning  seemed  to 
have  some  effect,  even  upon  his  equable  temper.  His 
manner  was  unusually  gay ;  his  smile  more  placid 
and  agreeable  than  usual ;  his  voice  more  clear  and 
pleasant.  He  laid  down  the  newspaper  he  had  been 
reading ;  leaned  back  upon  his  pillow  with  the  air 
of  one  who  resigned  himself  to  a  train  of  charming 
recollections ;  and  after  a  pause,  soliloquized  as  fol¬ 
lows  : 

“And  my  friend  the  centaur  goes  the  way  of  his 
mamma !  I  am  not  surprised.  And  his  mysterious 
friend  Mr.  Dennis,  likewise !  I  am  not  surprised. 
And  my  old  postman,  the  exceedingly  free-and-easy 
young  madman  of  Chigwell!  I  am  quite  rejoiced. 
It’s  the  very  best  thing  that  could  possibly  happen 
to  him.” 

After  delivering  himself  of  these  remarks,  he  fell 
again  into  his  smiling  train  of  reflection ;  from  which 
he  roused  himself  at  length  to  finish  his  chocolate, 
which  was  getting  cold,  and  ring  the  bell  for  more. 

The  new  supply  arriving,  he  took  the  cup  from 
his  servant’s  hand ;  and  saying,  with  a  charming  af¬ 
fability,  “  I  am  obliged  to  you,  Peak,”  dismissed  him. 

“  It  is  a  remarkable  circumstance,”  he  mused,  dal¬ 
lying  lazily  with  the  tea-spoon,  “  that  my  friend  the 
madman  should  have  been  within  an  ace  of  escap¬ 
ing,  on  his  trial ;  and  it  was  a  good  stroke  of  chance 
(or,  as  the  world  would  say,  a  providential  occur¬ 
rence)  that  the  brother  of  my  Lord  Mayor  should 
have  been  in  court,  with  other  country  justices,  into 
whose  very  dense  heads  curiosity  had  penetrated. 
For  though  the  brother  of  my  Lord  Mayor  was  de¬ 
cidedly  wrong;  and  established  his  near  relation¬ 
ship  to  that  amusing  person  beyond  all  doubt,  in 
stating  that  my  friend  was  sane,  and  had,  to  his 
knowledge,  wandered  about  the  country  with  a 
vagabond  parent,  avowing  revolutionary  and  re¬ 
bellious  sentiments,  I  am  not  the  less  obliged  to  him 
for  volunteering  that  evidence.  These  insane  crea¬ 
tures  make  such  very  odd  and  embarrassing  remarks, 
that  they  really  ought  to  be  hanged  for  the  comfort 
of  society.” 


The  country  justice  had  indeed  turned  the  waver¬ 
ing  scale  against  poor  Barnaby,  and  solved  the  doubt 
that  trembled  in  his  favor.  Grip  little  thought  how 
much  he  had  to  answer  for. 

“  They  will  be  a  singular  party,”  said  Sir  John, 
leaning  his  head  upon  his  hand,  and  sipping  his 
chocolate  ;  “  a  very  curious  party.  The  hangman 
himself;  the  centaur;  and  the  madman.  The  cen¬ 
taur  would  make  a  very  handsome  preparation  in 
Surgeons’  Hall,  and  would  benefit  science  extreme¬ 
ly.  I  hope  they  have  taken  care  to  bespeak  him. — 
Peak,  I  am  not  at  home,  of  course,  to  any  body  but 
the  hair-dresser.” 

This  reminder  to  his  servant  was  called  forth  by 
a  knock  at  the  door,  which  the  man  hastened  to 
open.  After  a  prolonged  murmur  of  question  and 
answer,  he  returned  ;  and  as  he  cautiously  closed 
the  room  door  behind  him,  a  man  was  heard  to 
cough  in  the  passage. 

“  Now,  it  is  of  no  use,  Peak,”  said  Sir  John,  raising* 
his  hand  in  deprecation  of  his  delivering  any  message; 

“  I  am  not  at  home.  I  can  not  possibly  hear  you.  I 
told  you  I  was  not  at  home,  and  my  word  is  sacred. 
Will  you  never  do  as  you  are  desired?” 

Having  nothing  to  oppose  to  this  reproof,  the  man 
was  about  to  withdraw,  when  the  visitor  who  had 
given  occasion  to  it,  probably  rendered  impatient  by 
delay,  knocked  with  his  knuckles  at  the  chamber 
door,  and  called  out  that  he  had  urgent  business 
with  Sir  John  Chester,  which  admitted  of  no  delay. 

“Let  him  in,”  said  Sir  John.  “  My  good  fellow,” 
he  added,  when  the  door  was  opened,  “  how  come 
you  to  intrude  yourself  in  this  extraordinary  man¬ 
ner  upon  the  privacy  of  a  gentleman  ?  How  can 
you  be  so  wholly  destitute  of  self-respect  as  to  be 
guilty  of  such  remarkable  ill-breeding?” 

“My  business,  Sir  John,  is  not  of  a  common  kind, 
I  do  assure  you,”  returned  the  person  he  addressed. 
“  If  I  have  taken  any  uncommon  course  to  get  ad¬ 
mission  to  you,  I  hope  I  shall  be  pardoned  on  that 
account.” 

“Well!  we  shall  see;  we  shall  see;”  returned  Sir 
John,  whose  face  cleared  up  when  he  saw  who  it 
was,  and  whose  {^repossessing  smile  was  now  re¬ 
stored.  “  I  am  sure  we  have  met  before,”  he  added, 
in  his  winning  tone,  “  but  really  I  forget  your  name  ?” 

“My  name  is  Gabriel  Varden,  sir.” 

“Varden,  of  course,  Varden,”  returned  Sir  John, 
tapping  his  forehead.  “  Dear  me,  how  very  defect¬ 
ive  my  memory  becomes  !  Varden  to  be  sure — Mr. 
Varden,  the  lock-smith.  You  have  a  charming  wife, 
Mr.  Varden,  and  a  most  beautiful  daughter.  They 
are  well  ?” 

Gabriel  thanked  him,  and  said  they  were. 

“  I  rejoice  to  hear  it,”  said  Sir  John.  “  Commend 
me  to  them  when  you  return,  and  say  that  I  wished 
I  were  fortunate  enough  to  convey,  myself,  the 
salute  which  I  intrust  you  to  deliver.  And  what,” 
he  asked  very  sweetly,  after  a  moment’s  pause,  “  can 
I  do  for  you  ?  You  may  command  me  freely.” 

“  I  thank  you,  Sir  John,”  said  Gabriel,  with  some 
pride  in  his  manner,  “but  I  have  come  to  ask  no 
favor  of  you,  though  I  come  on  business. — Private,” 
he  added,  with  a  glance  at  the  man  who  stood  look¬ 
ing  on,  “  and  very  pressing  business.” 

“  I  can  not  sav  you  are  the  more  welcome  for  be- 


ON  A  DISAGREEABLE  ERRAND. 


241 


ing  independent,  and  having  nothing  to  ask  of  me,” 
returned  Sir  John,  graciously,  “for  I  should  have 
been  happy  to  render  you  a  service ;  still,  you  are 
welcome  on  any  terms.  Oblige  me  with  some  more 
chocolate,  Peak,  and  don’t  wait.” 

The  man  retired,  and  left  them  alone. 

“Sir  John,”  said  Gabriel,  “I  am  a  working-man, 
and  have  been  so,  all  my  life.  If  I  don’t  prepare 
you  enough  for  what  I  have  to  tell ;  if  I  come  to  the 
point  too  abruptly;  and  give  you  a  shock,  which  a 
gentleman  could  have  spared  you,  or  at  all  events 
lessened  very  much,  I  hope  you  will  give  me  credit 
for  meaning  well.  I  wish  to  be  careful  and  consid¬ 
erate,  and  I  trust  that  in  a  straightforward  person 
like  me,  you’ll  take  the  will  for  the  deed.” 

“  Mr.  Varden,”  returned  the  other,  perfectly  com¬ 
posed  under  this  exordium,  “I  beg  you’ll  take  a 
chair.  Chocolate,  perhaps,  you  don’t  relish  ?  Well 
it  is  an  acquired  taste,  no  doubt.” 

“Sir  John,”  said  Gabriel,  who  had  acknowledged 
with  a  bow  the  invitation  to  be  seated,  but  had  not 
availed  hknself  of  it;  “Sir  John” — he  dropped  his 
voice  and  drew  nearer  to  the  bed — “I  am  just  now 
come  from  Newgate — ” 

“  Good  Gad  !”  cried  Sir  John,  hastily  sitting  up  in 
bed ;  “  from  Newgate,  Mr.  Varden  !  How  could  you 
be  so  very  imprudent  as  to  come  from  Newgate ! 
Newgate,  where  there  are  jail-fevers,  and  ragged 
people,  and  barefooted  men  and  women,  and  a  thou¬ 
sand  horrors!  Peak,  bring  the  camphor,  quick! 
Heaven  and  earth,  Mr.  Varden,  my  dear,  good  soul, 
how  could  you  come  from  Newgate  ?” 

Gabriel  returned  no  answer,  but  looked  ou  in  si¬ 
lence  while  Peak  (w'ho  had  entered  with  the  hot 
chocolate)  ran  to  a  drawer,  and  returning  with  a 
bottle,  sprinkled  his  master’s  dressing-gown  and  the 
bedding ;  and  besides  moistening  the  lock  -  smith 
himself,  plentifully,  described  a  circle  round  about 
him  on  the  carpet.  When  he  had  done  this,  he  again 
retired ;  and  Sir  John,  reclining  in  an  easy  attitude 
upon  his  pillow,  once  more  turned  a  smiling  face 
toward  his  visitor. 

“  You  will  forgive  me,  Mr.  Varden,  I  am  sure,  for 
being  at  first  a  little  sensitive  both  on  your  account 
and  my  own.  I  confess  I  was  startled,  notwithstand¬ 
ing  your  delicate  exordium.  Might  I  ask  you  to  do 
me  the  favor  not  to  approach  any  nearer  ? — You  have 
really  come  from  Newgate!” 

The  lock-smith  inclined  his  head. 

“  In-deed !  And  now,  Mr.  Varden,  all  exaggeration 
and  embellishment  apart,”  said  Sir  John  Chester, 
confidentially,  as  he  sipped  his  chocolate,  “vrhat 
kind  of  place  is  Newgate  ?” 

“A  strange  place,  Sir  John,”  returned  the  lock¬ 
smith,  “  of  a  sad  and  doleful  kind.  A  strange  place, 
where  many  strange  things  are  heard  and  seen  ;  but 
few  more  strange  than  that  I  come  to  tell  you  of. 
The  case  is  urgent.  I  am  sent  here.” 

“Not — no,  no — not  from  the  jail?” 

“  Yes,  Sir  John  ;  from  the  jail.” 

“And  my  good,  credulous,  open-hearted  friend,” 
said  Sir  John,  setting  down  his  cup,  and  laughing, 
“  by  wThom  ?” 

“By  a  man  called  Dennis — for  many  years  the 
hangman,  and  to-morrow  morning  the  hanged,”  re¬ 
turned  the  lock-smith. 


Sir  John  had  expected — had  been  quite  certain 
from  the  first — that  he  would  say  he  had  come  from 
Hugh,  and  was  prepared  to  meet  him  on  that  point. 
But  this  answer  occasioned  him  a  degree  of  astonish¬ 
ment,  which,  for  the  moment,  he  could  not,  with  all 
his  command  of  feature,  prevent  his  face  from  ex¬ 
pressing.  He  quickly  subdued  it,  however,  and  said 
in  the  same  light  tone : 

“And  what  does  the  gentleman  require  of  me? 
My  memory  may  be  at  fault  again,  but  I  don’t  recol¬ 
lect  that  I  ever  had  the  pleasure  of  an  introduction 
to  him,  or  that  I  ever  numbered  him  among  my  per¬ 
sonal  friends,  I  do  assure  you,  Mr.  Varden.” 

“  Sir  John,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  gravely,  “  I 
will  tell  you,  as  nearly  as  I  can,  in  the  words  he  used 
to  me,  what  he  desires  that  you  should  know,  and 
wrhat  you  ought  to  know  without  a  moment’s  loss 
of  time.” 

Sir  John  Chester  settled  himself  in  a  position  of 
greater  repose,  and  looked  at  his  visitor  with  an  ex¬ 
pression  of  face  which  seemed  to  say,  “This  is  an 
amusing  fellow  !  I’ll  hear  him  out.” 

“  You  may  have  seen  in  the  newspapers,  sir,”  said 
Gabriel,  pointing  to  the  one  which  lay  by  his  side, 
“that  I  wras  a  witness  against  this  man  upon  his 
trial  some  days  since ;  and  that  it  was  not  his  fault 
I  was  alive,  and  able  to  speak  to  what  I  knew.” 

uMay  have  seen !”  cried  Sir  John.  “  My  dear  Mr. 
Varden,  you  are  quite  a  public  character,  and  live  in 
all  men’s  thoughts  most  deservedly.  Nothing  can 
exceed  the  interest  with  which  I  read  your  testi¬ 
mony,  and  remembered  that  I  had  the  pleasure  of  a 
slight  acquaintance  with  you. — I  hope  we  shall  have 
your  portrait  published  ?” 

“  This  morning,  sir,”  said  the  lock-smith,  taking  no 
notice  of  these  compliments — “early  this  morning, 
a  message  was  brought  to  me  from  Newgate,  at  this 
man’s  request,  desiring  that  I  wTould  go  and  see  him, 
for  he  had  something  particular  to  communicate.  I 
needn’t  tell  you  that  he  is  no  friend  of  mine,  and 
that  I  had  never  seen  him  until  the  rioters  beset 
my  house.” 

Sir  John  fanned  himself  gently  with  the  news¬ 
paper,  and  nodded. 

“  I  knew,  however,  from  the  general  report,”  re¬ 
sumed  Gabriel,  “that  the  order  for  his  execution  to¬ 
morrow  went  down  to  the  prison  last  night ;  and 
looking  upon  him  as  a  dying  man,  I  complied  with 
his  request.” 

“You  are  quite  a  Christian,  Mr.  Varden,”  said  Sir 
John;  “and  in  that  amiable  capacity,  you  increase 
my  desire  that  you  should  take  a  chair.” 

“  He  said,”  continued  Gabriel,  looking  steadily  at 
the  knight,  “  that  he  had  sent  to  me,  because  he  had 
no  friend  or  companion  in  the  whole  world  (being 
the  common  hangman),  and  because  he  believed, 
from  the  way  in  which  I  had  given  my  evidence, 
that  I  was  an  honest  man,  and  would  act  truly  by 
him.  He  said  that,  being  shunned  by  every  one 
who  knew  his  calling,  even  by  people  of  the  low¬ 
est  and  most  wretched  grade,  and  finding,  wrhen  he 
joined  the  rioters,  that  the  men  he  acted  with  had 
no  suspicion  of  it  (which  I  believe  is  true  enough, 
for  a  poor  fool  of  an  old  ’prentice  of  mine  was  one  of 
them),  he  had  kept  his  own  counsel  up  to  the  time 
of  his  being  taken  and  put  in  jail.” 


16 


‘242 


BARNABY  RUDGE. 


“Very  discreet  of  Mr.  Dennis/’  observed  Sir  John, 
with  a  slight  yawn,  though  still  with  the  utmost  af¬ 
fability,  “  but — except  for  your  admirable  aud  lucid 
manner  of  telling  it,  which  is  perfect — -not  very  in¬ 
teresting  to  me.” 

“  When,”  pursued  the  lock-smith,  quite  unabashed 
and  wholly  regardless  of  these  interruptions — “when 
he  was  taken  to  the  jail,  he  found  that  his  fellow- 
prisoner,  in  the  same  room,  was  a  young  man,  Hugh 
by  name,  a  leader  in  the  riots,  who  had  been  betrayed 
and  given  up  by  himself.  From  something  which  fell 
from  this  unhappy  creature  in  the  course  of  the  an¬ 
gry  words  they  had  at  meeting,  he  discovered  that  his 
mother  had  suffered  the  death  to  which  they  both  are 
now  condemned. — The  time  is  very  short,  Sir  John.” 

The  knight  laid  down  his  paper  fan,  replaced  his 
cup  upon  the  table  at  his  side,  and,  saving  for  the 
smile  that  lurked  about  his  mouth,  looked  at  the 
lock -smith  with  as  much  steadiness  as  the  lock¬ 
smith  looked  at  him. 

“  They  have  been  in  prison  now,  a  month.  One 
conversation  led  to  many  more ;  and  the  hangman 
soon  found,  from  a  comparison  of  time,  aud  place, 
and  dates,  that  he  had  executed  the  sentence  of  the 
law  upon  this  woman  himself.  She  had  been  tempt¬ 
ed  by  want — as  so  many  people  are — into  the  easy 
crime  of  passing  forged  notes.  She  was  young  aud 
handsome ;  and  the  traders  who  employ  men,  wom¬ 
en,  and  children  in  this  traffic,  looked  upon  her  as 
one  who  was  well  adapted  for  their  business,  and 
who  would  probably  go  on  without  suspicion  for  a 
long  time.  But  they  were  mistaken ;  for  she  was 
stopped  in  the  commission  of  her  very  first  offense, 
and  died  for  it.  She  was  of  gypsy  blood,  Sir  John — ” 

It  might  have  been  the  effect  of  a  passing  cloud 
which  obscured  the  sun,  and  cast  a  shadow  on  his 
face ;  but  the  knight  turned  deadly  pale.  Still  he 
met  the  lock-smith’s  eye  as  before. 

“  She  was  of  gypsy  blood,  Sir  John,”  repeated  Ga¬ 
briel,  “  aud  had  a  high,  free  spirit.  This,  and  her 
good  looks,  and  her  lofty  manner,  interested  some 
gentlemen  who  were  easily  moved  by  dark  eyes ; 
and  efforts  were  made  to  save  her.  They  might 
have  been  successful,  if  she  would  have  given  them 
any  clue  to  her  history.  But  she  never  wrould,  or 
did.  There  was  reason  to  suspect  that  she  would 
make  an  attempt  upon  her  life.  A  watch  was  set 
upon  her  night  and  day;  aud  from  that  time  she 
never  spoke  again — ” 

Sir  John  stretched  out  his  hand  toward  his  cup. 
The  lock-smith  going  on,  arrested  it  half-way. 

— “  Until  she  had  but  a  minute  to  live.  Then  she 
broke  silence,  and  said,  in  a  low  firm  voice  which  no 
one  heard  but  this  executioner,  for  all  other  living 
creatures  had  retired  and  left  her  to  her  fate,  ‘  If  I 
had  a  dagger  within  these  fingers  and  he  was  with¬ 
in  my  reach,  I  would  strike  him  dead  before  me,  even 
now !’  The  man  asked  ‘  Who  V  She  said,  ‘  The  father 
of  her  boy.’  ” 

Sir  John  drew  back  his  outstretched  hand,  and 
seeing  that  the  lock-smith  paused,  signed  to  him  with 
easy  politeness  aud  without  any  new  appearance  of 
emotion,  to  proceed. 

“  It  was  the  first  word  she  had  ever  spoken,  from 
which  it  could  be  understood  that  she  had  any  rela¬ 
tive  on  earth.  ‘  Was  the  child  alive  V  he  asked. 


‘  Yes.’  He  asked  her  where  it  was,  its  name,  and 
whether  she  had  any  wish  respecting  it.  She  had 
but' one,  she  said.  It  was  that  the  boy  might  live 
and  grow,  in  utter  ignorance  of  his  father,  so  that 
no  arts  might  teach  him  to  be  gentle  and  forgiving. 
When  he  became  a  man  she  trusted  to  the  God  of  their 
tribe  to  bring  the  father  and  the  son  together,  and 
revenge  her  through  her  child.  He  asked  her  other 
questions,  but  she  spoke  no  more.  Indeed,  he  says, 
she  scarcely  said  this  much,  to  him,  but  stood  with 
her  face  turned  upward  to  the  sky,  and  never  looked 
toward  him  once.” 

Sir  John  took  a  pinch  of  snuff;  glanced  approv¬ 
ingly  at  an  elegant  little  sketch,  entitled  “  Nature,” 
on  the  wall ;  and  raising  his  eyes  to  the  lock-smith’s 
face  again,  said,  with  an  air  of  courtesy  and  patron¬ 
age,  “  You  were  observing,  Mr.  Varden — ” 

“  That  she  never,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  who 
was  not  to  be  diverted  by  any  artifice  from  his  firm 
manner,  and  his  steady  gaze — “  that  she  never  looked 
toward  him  once,  Sir  John ;  and  so  she  died,  aud  he 
forgot  her.  But,  some  years  afterward,  a*mau  was 
sentenced  to  die  the  same  death,  who  was  a  gypsy 
too;  a  sun -burned  swarthy  fellow,  almost  a  wild 
mau  ;  and  while  he  lay  in  prison,  under  sentence,  he, 
who  had  seen  the  hangman  more  than  once  while  he 
was  free,  cut  an  image  of  him  on  his  stick,  by  way 
of  braving  death,  and  showing  those  who  attended 
on  him,  how  little  he  cared  or  thought  about  it.  He 
gave  this  stick  into  his  bauds  at  Tyburn,  and  told 
him  then,  that  the  womau  I  had  spoken  of  had  left 
her  own  people  to  join  a  fine  gentleman,  and  that 
being  deserted  by  him,  aud  cast  off  by  her  old  friends, 
she  had  sworn  within  her  own  proud  breast,  that 
whatever  her  misery  might  be,  she  would  ask  no 
help  of  any  human  being.  He  told  him  that  she 
had  kept  her  word  to  the  last ;  and  that,  meeting 
even  him  in  the  streets — he  had  been  fond  of  her 
once,  it  seems — she  had  slipped  from  him  by  a  trick, 
and  he  never  saw  her  again,  until,  being  in  one  of 
the  frequent  crowds  at  Tyburn,  with  some  of  his 
rough  companions,  he  had  been  driven  almost  mad 
by  seeing,  in  the  criminal  under  another  name,  whose 
death  he  had  come  to  witness,  herself.  Standing  in 
the  same  place  in  which  she  had  stood,  he  told  the 
hangman  this,  and  told  him,  too,  her  real  name, 
which  only  her  own  people  and  the  gentleman  for 
whose  sake  she  had  left  them,  knew. — That  name  he 
will  tell  again,  Sir  John,  to  none  but  you.” 

“  To  none  but  me !”  exclaimed  the  knight,  pausing 
in  Hie  act  of  raising  his  cup  to  his  lips  with  a  per¬ 
fectly  steady  hand,  aud  curling  up  his  little  finger 
for  the  better  display  of  a  brilliant  ring  with  which 
!  it  was  ornamented :  “  but  me ! — My  dear  Mr.  Varden, 
how  very  preposterous  to  select  me  for  his  confi¬ 
dence  !  With  you  at  his  elbow,  too,  who  are  so  per¬ 
fectly  trustworthy !” 

“  Sir  John,  Sir  John,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  “  at 
twelve  to-morrow,  these  men  die.  Hear  the  few 
words  I  have  to  add,  and  do  not  hope  to  deceive 
me ;  for  though  I  am  a  plain  man  of  humble  station, 
j  and  you  are  a  gentleman  of  rank  and  learning,  the 
i  truth  raises  me  to  your  level,  and  I  know  that  you 
j  anticipate  the  disclosure  with  which  I  am  about  to 
,  end,  aud  that  you  believe  this  doomed  man,  Hugh, 
!  to  be  your  son.” 


'  » 


V 


GABRIEL  SPEAKS  PLAIN. 


243 


“  Nay,”  said  Sir  John,  bantering  him  with  a  gay 
air;  “the  wild  gentleman,  who  died  so  suddenly, 
scarcely  went  as  far  as  that,  I  think  ?” 

“He  did  not,”  returned  the  lock-smith,  “for  she 
had  bound  him  by  some  pledge,  known  only  to  these 
people,  and  which  the  w'orst  among  them  respect,  not 
to  tell  your  name ;  hut,  in  a  fantastic  pattern  on  the 
stick,  he  had  carved  some  letters,  and  when  the  hang¬ 
man  asked  it,  he  bade  him,  especially  if  he  should 
ever  meet  with  her  son  in  after  life,  remember  that 
place  well.” 

“  What  place  ?” 

“  Chester.” 

The  knight  finished  his  cup  of  chocolate  with  an 
appearance  of  infinite  relish,  and  carefully  wiped  his 
lips  upon  his  handkerchief. 

“Sir  John,”  said  the  lock-smith,  “this  is  all  that 
has  been  told  to  me ;  but  since  these  two  men  have 
been  left  for  death,  they  have  conferred  together 
closely.  See  them,  and  hear  what  they  can  add. 
See  this  Dennis,  and  learn  from  him  what  he  has 
not  trusted  to  me.  If  you,  who  hold  the  clue  to  all, 
want  corroboration  (which  you  do  not),  the  means 
are  easy.” 

“And  to  what,”  said  Sir  John  Chester,  rising  on  his 
elbow,  after  smoothing  the  pillow  for  its  reception  ; 
“my  dear,  good-natured,  estimable  Mr.  Varden— 
with  whom  I  can  not  be  angry  if  I  would — to  what 
does  all  this  tend  ?” 

“  I  take  you  for  a  man,  Sir  John,  and  I  suppose  it 
tends  to  some  pleading  of  natural  affection  in  your 
breast,”  returned  the  lock-smith.  “  I  suppose  to  the 
straining  of  every  nerve,  and  the  exertion  of  all  the 
influence  you  have,  or  can  make,  in  behalf  of  your 
miserable  son,  and  the  man  who  has  disclosed  his 
existence  to  you.  At  the  worst,  I  suppose  to  your 
seeing  your  son,  and  awakening  him  to  a  sense  of 
his  crime  and  danger.  He  has  no  such  sense  now. 
Think  what  his  life  must  have  been,  when  he  said 
in  my  hearing,  that  if  I  moved  you  to  any  thing,  it 
would  be  to  hastening  his  death,  and  insuring  his 
silence,  if  you  had  it  in  your  power!” 

“And  have  you,  my  good  Mr.  Varden,”  said  Sir 
John  in  a  tone  of  mild  reproof,  “have  you  really 
1  i ved  to  your  present  age,  and  remained  so  very  sim¬ 
ple  and  credulous,  as  to  approach  a  gentleman  of  es¬ 
tablished  character  with  such  credentials  as  these, 
from  desperate  men  in  their  last  extremity,  catching 
at  any  straw  ?  Oh  dear !  Oh  fie,  fie !” 

The  lock -smith  was  going  to  interpose,  but  he 
stopped  him : 

“  On  any  other  subject,  Mr.  Varden,  I  shall  be  de¬ 
lighted — I  shall  be  charmed — to  converse  with  you, 
but  I  owe  it  to  my  own  character  not  to  pursue  this 
topic  for  another  moment.” 

“  Think  better  of  it,  sir,  when  I  am  gone,”  returned 
the  lock-smith ;  “  think  better  of  it,  sir.  Although 
you  have,  thrice  within  as  many  weeks,  turned  your 
lawful  son,  Mr.  Edward,  from  your  door,  you  may 
have  time,  you  may  have  years  to  make  your  peace 
with  him,  Sir  John  :  but  that  twelve  o’clock  will  soon 
be  here,  and  soon  be  past  forever.” 

“  I  thank  you  very  much,”  returned  the  knight, 
kissing  his  delicate  hand  to  the  lock-smith,  “  for 
your  guileless  advice ;  and  I  only  wish,  my  good 
soul,  although  your  simplicity  is  quite  captivating, 


that  you  had  a  little  more  worldly  wisdom.  I  never 
so  much  regretted  the  arrival  of  my  hair-dresser  as 
I  do  at  this  moment.  God  bless  you  !  Good-morn¬ 
ing !  You’ll  not  forget  my  message  to  the  ladies,  Mr. 
Varden  ?  Peak,  show  Mr.  Varden  to  the  door.” 

Gabriel  said  no  more,  but  gave  the  knight  a  part¬ 
ing  look,  and  left  him.  As  he  quitted  the  room,  Sir 
John’s  face  changed;  and  the  smile  gave  place  to  a 
haggard  and  anxious  expression,  like  that  of  a  wea¬ 
ry  actor  jaded  by  the  performance  of  a  difficult  part. 
He  rose  from  his  bed  with  a  heavy  sigh,  and  wrapped 
himself  in  his  morning-gown. 

“  So  she  kept  her  word,”  he  said,  “  and  wTas  con¬ 
stant  to  her  threat !  I  would  I  had  never  seen  that 
dark  face  of  hers — I  might  have  read  these  conse¬ 
quences  in  it,  from  the  first.  This  affair  would  make 
a  noise  abroad,  if  it  rested  on  better  evidence;  but, 
as  it  is,  and  by  not  joining  the  scattered  links  of  the 
chain,  I  can  afford  to  slight  it. — Extremely  distress¬ 
ing  to  be  the  parent  of  such  an  uncouth  creature! 
Still,  I  gave  him  very  good  advice.  I  told  him  he 
would  certainly  be  hanged.  I  could  have  done  no 
more  if  I  had  known  of  our  relationship  ;  and  there 
are  a  great  many  fathers  who  have  never  done  as 
much  for  their  natural  children. — The  hair-dresser 
may  come  in,  Peak !” 

The  hair-dresser  came  in  ;  and  saw  in  Sir  John 
Chester  (whose  accommodating  conscience  was  soon 
quieted  by  the  numerous  precedents  that  occurred 
to  him  in  support  of  his  last  observation),  the  same 
imperturbable,  fascinating,  elegant  gentleman  he 
had  seen  yesterday,  and  many  yesterdays  before. 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

AS  the  lock-smith  walked  slowly  away  from  Sir 
John  Chester’s  chambers,  he  lingered  under  the 
trees  which  shaded  the  path,  almost  hoping  that  he 
might  be  summoned  to  return.  He  had  turned  back 
thrice,  and  still  loitered  at  the  corner,  when  the  clock 
struck  twelve. 

It  was  a  solemn  sound,  and  not  merely  for  its  ref¬ 
erence  to  to-morrow ;  for  he  knew  that  in  that  chime 
the  murderer’s  knell  was  rung.  He  had  seen  him 
pass  along  the  crowded  street,  amidst  the  execration 
of  the  throng ;  and  marked  his  quivering  lip,  and 
trembling  limbs ;  the  ashy  hue  upon  his  face,  his 
clammy  brow,  the  wild  distraction  of  his  eye — the 
fear  of  death  that  swallowed  up  all  other  thoughts, 
and  gnawed  without  cessation  at  his  heart  and  brain. 
He  had  marked  the  wandering  look,  seeking  for  hope, 
and  finding,  turn  where  it  would,  despair.  He  had 
seen  the  remorseful,  pitiful,  desolate  creature,  riding, 
with  his  coffin  by  his  side,  to  the  gibbet.  He  knew 
that,  to  the  last,  he  had  been  an  unyielding,  obdu¬ 
rate  man  ;  that  in  the  savage  terror  of  his  condi¬ 
tion  he  had  hardened,  rather  than  relented,  to  his 
wife  and  child;  and  that  the  last  words  which  bad 
passed  his  white  lips  were  curses  on  them  as  his 
enemies. 

Mr.  Haredale  had  determined  to  be  there,  and  see 
it  done.  Nothing  but  the  evidence  of  his  own  senses 
could  satisfy  that  gloomy  thirst  for  retribution  which 
had  been  gathering  upon  him  for  so  many  years. 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


244 


The  lock-smith  knew  this,  and  when  the  chimes  had 
ceased  to  vibrate,  hurried  away  to  meet  him. 

“  For  these  two  men,”  he  said,  as  he  went,  “  I  can 
do  no  more.  Heaven  have  mercy  on  them ! — Alas  ! 
I  say  I  can  do  no  more  for  them,  but  whom  can  I 
help  ?  Mary  Rudge  will  have  a  home,  and  a  firm 
friend  when  she  most  wants  one  ;  but  Barnaby — poor 
Barnaby — willing  Barnaby — what  aid  can  I  render 
him  ?  There  are  many,  many  men  of  sense,  God  for¬ 
give  me,”  cried  the  honest  lock-smith,  stopping  in  a 
narrow  court  to  pass  his  hand  across  his  eyes,  “I 
could  better  afford  to  lose  than  Barnaby.  We  have 
always  been  good  friends,  but  I  never  knew,  till  now, 
how  much  I  loved  the  lad.” 

There  were  not  many  in  the  great  city  who  thought 
of  Barnaby  that  day,  otherwise  than  as  an  actor  in 
a  show  which  was  to  take  place  to-morrow.  But  if 
the  whole  population  had  had  him  in  their  minds, 
and  had  wished  his  life  to  be  spared,  not  one  among 
them  could  have  done  so  with  a  purer  zeal  or  great¬ 
er  singleness  of  heart  than  the  good  lock-smith. 

Barnaby  was  to  die.  There  was  no  hope.  It  is 
not  the  least  evil  attendant  upon  the  frequent  exhi¬ 
bition  of  this  last  dread  punishment,  of  Death,  that 
it  hardens  the  minds  of  those  who  deal  it  out,  and 
makes  them,  though  they  be  amiable  men  in  other 
respects,  indifferent  to,  or  unconscious  of  their  great 
responsibility.  The  word  had  gone  forth  that  Bar¬ 
naby  was  to  die.  It  went  forth,  every  month,  for 
lighter  crimes.  It  was  a  thing  so  common,  that 
very  few  were  startled  by  the  awful  sentence,  or 
cared  to  question  its  propriety.  Just  then,  too,  when 
the  law  had  been  so  flagrantly  outraged,  its  dignity 
must  be  asserted.  The  symbol  of  its  dignity — stamp¬ 
ed  upon  every  page  of  the  criminal  statute-book — 
was  the  gallows  ;  and  Barnaby  was  to  die. 

They  had  tried  to  save  him.  The  lock-smith  had 
carried  petitions  and  memorials  to  the  fountain-head, 
with  his  own  hands.  But  the  well  was  not  one  of 
mercy,  and  Barnaby  was  to  die. 

From  the  first  his  mother  had  never  left  him,  save 
at  night ;  and  with  her  beside  him,  he  was  as  usual 
contented.  On  this  last  day,  he  was  more  elated  and 
more  proud  than  he  had  been  yet;  and  when  she 
dropped  the  book  she  had  been  reading  to  him  aloud, 
and  fell  upon  his  neck,  he  stopped  in  his  busy  task 
of  folding  a  piece  of  crape  about  his  hat,  and  wonder¬ 
ed  at  her  anguish.  Grip  uttered  a  feeble  croak,  half 
in  encouragement,  it  seemed,  and  half  in  remon¬ 
strance,  but  he  wanted  heart  to  sustain  it,  and  lapsed 
abruptly  into  silence. 

With  them  who  stood  upon  the  brink  of  the  great 
gulph  which  none  can  see  beyond,  Time,  so  soon  to 
lose  itself  in  vast  Eternity,  rolled  on  like  a  mighty 
river,  swollen  and  rapid  as  it  nears  the  sea.  It  was 
morning  but  now ;  they  had  sat  and  talked  together 
iu  a  dream;  and  here  was  evening.  The  dreadful 
hour  of  separation,  which  even  yesterday  had  seem¬ 
ed  so  distant,  was  at  hand. 

.  They  walked  out  into  the  court-yard,  clinging  to 
each  other,  but  not  speaking.  Barnaby  knew  that 
the  jail  was  a  dull,  sad,  miserable  place,  and  looked 
forward  to  to-morrow,  as  to  a  passage  from  it  to 
something  bright  and  beautiful.  He  had  a  vague 
impression  too,  that  he  was  expected  to  be  brave — 
that  he  was  a  man  of  great  consequence,  and  that 


the  prison  people  would  be  glad  to  make  him  weep. 
He  trod  the  ground  more  firmly  as  he  thought  of  this, 
and  bade  her  take  heart  and  cry  no  more,  and  feel 
how  steady  his  hand  was.  “They  call  me  silly, 
mother.  They  shall  see  to-morrow  1” 

Dennis  and  Hugh  were  in  the  court-yard.  Hugh 
came  forth  from  his  cell  as  they  did,  stretching 
himself  as  though  he  had  been  sleeping.  Dennis  sat 
upon  a  bench  in  a  corner,  with  his  knees  and  chin 
huddled  together,  and  rocked  himself  to  and  fro  like 
a  person  in  severe  pain. 

The  mother  and  son  remained  on  one  side  of  the 
court,  and  these  two  men  upon  the  other.  Hugh 
strode  up  and  down,  glancing  fiercely  every  nowand 
then  at  the  bright  summer  sky,  and  looking  round, 
when  he  had  done  so,  at  the  walls. 

“No  reprieve,  no  reprieve!  Nobody  comes  near 
us.  There’s  only  the  night  left  now !”  moaned  Den¬ 
nis  faintly,  as  he  wrung  his  hands.  “  Do  you  think 
they’ll  reprieve  me  in  the  night,  brother?  I’ve 
known  reprieves  come  in  the  night,  afore  now.  I’ve 
known  ’em  come  as  late  as  five,  six,  and  seven 
o’clock  in  the  morning.  Don’t  you  think  there’s  a 
good  chance  yet — don’t  you  ?  Say  you  do.  Say  you 
do,  young  man,”  whined  the  miserable  creature,  with 
an  imploring  gesture  toward  Barnaby,  “  or  I  shall 
go  mad!” 

“  Better  be  mad  than  sane  here,”  said  Hugh. 
“Go  mad.” 

“  But  tell  me  what  you  think.  Somebody  tell  me 
what  he  thinks !”  cried  the  wretched  object — so 
mean,  and  wretched,  and  despicable,  that  even  Pity’s 
self  might  have  turned  away,  at  sight  of  such  a  be¬ 
ing  in  the  likeness  of  a  man— “isn’t  there  a  chance 
for  me — isn’t  there  a  good  chance  for  me  ?  Isn’t  it 
likely  they  may  be  doing  this  to  frighten  me  ?  Don’t 
you  think  it  is  ?  Oh !”  he  almost  shrieked,  as  he 
wrung  his  hands,  “  won’t  any  body  give  me  comfort !” 

“  You  ought  to  be  the  best,  instead  of  the  worst,” 
said  Hugh,  stopping  before  him.  “  Ha,  ha,  ha !  See 
the  hangman,  when  it  comes  home  to  him !” 

“  You  don’t  know  what  it  is,”  cried  Dennis,  actual¬ 
ly  writhing  as  he  spoke  :  “  I  do.  That  I  should  come 
to  be  worked  off!  I !  I !  That  I  should  come!” 

“And  why  not?”  said  Hugh,  as  he  thrust  back  his 
matted  hair  to  get  a  better  view  of  his  late  associate. 
“  How  often,  before  I  knew  your  trade,  did  I  hear  you 
talking  of  this  as  if  it  was  a  treat  ?” 

“  I  an’t  unconsistent,”  screamed  the  miserable 
creature ;  “  I’d  talk  so  again,  if  I  was  hangman. 
Some  other  man  has  got  my  old  opinions  at  this  min¬ 
ute.  That  makes  it  worse.  Somebody’s  longing  to 
work  me  off.  I  know  by  myself  that  somebody  must 
be !” 

“He’ll  soon  have  his  longing,”  said  Hugh,  resum¬ 
ing  his  walk.  “  Think  of  that,  and  be  quiet.” 

Although  one  of  these  men  displayed,  in  his  speech 
and  bearing,  the  most  reckless  hardihood ;  and  the 
other,  in  his  every  wrord  and  action,  testified  such  an 
extreme  of  abject  cowardice  that  it  wras  humiliating 
to  see  him  ;  it  would  be  difficult  to  say  which  of  them 
would  most  have  repelled  and  shocked  an  observer. 
Hugh’s  was  the  dogged  desperation  of  a  savage  at 
the  stake  ;  the  hangman  was  reduced  to  a  condition 
little  better,  if  any,  than  that  of  a  hound  with  the 
halter  round  his  neck.  Yet,  as  Mr.  Dennis  knew  and 


t 


JUST  BEFORE  THE  EXECUTION. 


BUILDING  THE  SCAFFOLD. 


245 


could  have  told  them,  these  were  the  two  commonest 
states  of  mind  in  persons  brought  to  their  pass.  Such 
was  the  wholesale  growth  of  the  seed  sown  by  the 
law,  that  this  kind  of  harvest  was  usually  looked 
for,  as  a  matter  of  course. 

In  one  respect  they  all  agreed.  The  wandering 
and  uncontrollable  train  of  thought,  suggesting  sud¬ 
den  recollections  of  things  distant  and  long  forgot¬ 
ten  and  remote  from  each  other — the  vague,  restless 
craving  for  something  undefined,  wiiich  nothing 
could  satisfy — the  swift  flight  of  the  minutes,  fusing 
themselves  into  hours,  as  if  by  enchantment— the 
rapid  coming  of  the  solemn  night — the  shadow  of 
death  always  upon  them,  and  yet  so  dim  and  faint, 
that  objects  the  meanest  and  most  trivial  started 
from  the  gloom  beyond,  and  forced  themselves  upon 
the  view — the  impossibility  of  holding  the  mind, 
even  if  they  had  been  so  disposed,  to  penitence  and 
preparation,  or  of  keeping  it  to  any  point  while  one 
hideous  fascination  tempted  it  away — these  things 
were  common  to  them  all,  and  varied  only  in  their 
outward  tokens. 

“  Fetch  me  the  book  I  left  within — upon  your 
bed,”  she  said  to  Barnaby,  as  the  clock  struck. 

“  Kiss  me  first.” 

He  looked  in  her  face,  and  saw  there  that  the 
time  was  come.  After  a  long  embrace,  he  tore  him¬ 
self  away,  and  ran  to  bring  it  to  her;  bidding  her 
not  stir  till  he  came  back.  He  soon  returned,  for  a 
shriek  recalled  him— but  she  was  gone. 

He  ran  to  the  yard  gate,  and  looked  through. 
They  were  carrying  her  away.  She  had  said  her 
heart  would  break.  It  was  better  so. 

“  Don’t  you  think,”  whimpered  Dennis,  creeping 
up  to  him,  as  he  stood  with  his  feet  rooted  to  the 
ground,  gazing  at  the  blank  walls — “don’t  you  think 
there’s  still  a  chance  ?  It’s  a  dreadful  end ;  it’s  a 
terrible  end  for  a  man  like  me.  Don’t  you  think 
there’s  a  chance?  I  don’t  mean  for  you,  I  mean  for 
me.  Don’t  let  him  hear  us”  (meaning  Hugh) ;  “  he’s 
so  desperate.” 

“Now  then,”  said  the  officer,  who  had  been  loun¬ 
ging  in  and  out  with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and 
yawning  as  if  he  were  in  the  last  extremity  for  some 
subject  of  interest :  “  it’s  time  to  turn  in,  boys.” 

“Not  yet,”  cried  Dennis,  “not  yet.  Not  for  an 
hour  yet !” 

“I  say,  your  watch  goes  different  from  what  it 
used  to,”  returned  the  man.  “  Once  upon  a  time  it 
was  always  too  fast.  It’s  got  the  other  fault  now.” 

“My  friend,”  cried  the  wretched  creature,  falling 
on  his  knees,  “  my  dear  friend — you  always  were  my 
dear  friend — there’s  some  mistake.  Some  letter  has 
been  mislaid,  or  some  messenger  has  been  stopped 
upon  the  way.  He  may  have  fallen  dead.  I  saw  a 
man  once  fall  down  dead  in  the  street,  myself,  and  he 
had  papers  in  his  pocket.  Send  to  inquire.  Let 
somebody  go  to  inquire.  They  never  will  hang  me. 
They  never  can.  Yes,  they  will,”  he  cried,  starting 
to  his  feet  with  a  terrible  scream.  “  They’ll  hang 
me  by  a  trick,  and  keep  the  pardon  back.  It’s  a 
plot  against  me.  I  shall  lose  my  life  !”  Arid  utter¬ 
ing  another  yell,  he  fell  in  a  fit  upon  the  ground. 

“  See  the  hangman  when  it  comes  home  to  him !” 
cried  Hugh  again,  as  they  bore  him  away — “  Ha,  ha, 
ha  !  Courage,  bold  Barnaby,  what  care  we  ?  Your  i 


hand!  They  do  well  to  put  us  out  of  the  world,  for 
if  we  got  loose  a  second  time,  we  wouldn’t  let  them 
off  so  easy,  eh?  Another  shake!  A  man  can  die 
but  once.  If  you  wake  in  the  night,  sing  that  out 
lustily,  and  fall  asleep  again.  Ha,  ha,  ha !” 

Barnaby  glanced  once  more  through  the  grate 
into  the  empty  yard ;  and  then  watched  Hugh  as  he 
strode  to  the  steps  leading  to  his  sleeping-cell.  He 
heard  him  shout,  and  burst  into  a  roar  of  laughter, 
and  saw  him  flourish  his  hat.  Then  he  turned 
away  himself,  like  one  who  walked  in  his  sleep  ;  and, 
without  any  sense  of  fear  or  sorrow,  lay  down  on  his 
pallet,  listening  for  the  clock  to  strike  again. 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

HE  time  wore  on.  The  noises  in  the  streets  be¬ 
came  less  frequent  by  degrees,  until  silence  was 
scarcely  broken  save  by  the  bells  in  church  towers, 
marking  the  progress  —  softer  and  more  stealthy 
while  the  city  slumbered* — of  that  Great  Watcher 
with  the  hoary  head,  who  never  sleeps  or  rests.  In 
the  brief  interval  of  darkness  and  repose  which 
feverish  towns  enjoy,  all  busy  sounds  were  hushed; 
and  those  who  awoke  from  dreams  lay  listening  in 
their  beds,  and  longed  for  dawn,  and  wished  the 
dead  of  the  night  were  past. 

Into  the  street  outside  the  jail’s  main  wall,  work¬ 
men  came  straggling  at  this  solemn  hour,  in  groups 
of  two  or  three,  and  meeting  in  the  centre,  cast  their 
tools  upon  the  ground  and  spoke  in  whispers.  Oth¬ 
ers  soon  issued  from  the  jail  itself,  bearing  on  their 
shoulders  planks  and  beams :  these  materials  being- 
all  brought  forth,  the  rest  bestirred  themselves,  and 
the  dull  sound  of  hammers  began  to  echo  through 
the  stillness. 

Here  and  there  among  this  knot  of  laborers,  one, 
with  a  lantern  or  a  smoky  link,  stood  by  to  light  his 
fellows  at  their  work ;  and  by  its  doubtful  aid,  some 
might  be  dimly  seen  taking  up  the  pavement  of  the 
road,  while  others  held  great  upright  posts,  or  fixed 
them  in  the  holes  thus  made  for  their  reception. 
Some  dragged  slowly  on,  toward  the  rest,  an  empty 
cart,  which  they  brought  rumbling  from  the  prison- 
yard  ;  while  others  erected  strong  barriers  across 
the  street.  All  were  busily  engaged.  Their  dusky 
figures  moving  to  and  fro,  at  that  unusual  hour,  so 
active  and  so  silent,  might  have  been  taken  for  those 
of  shadowy  creatures  toiling  at  miduight  on  some 
ghostly  unsubstantial  wrork,  which,  like  themselves, 
would  vanish  with  the  first  gleam  of  day,  and  leave 
but  morning  mist  and  vapor, 

While  it  was  yet  dark,  a  few  lookers-on  collected, 
who  had  plainly  come  there  for  the  purpose  and  in¬ 
tended  to  remain :  even  those  who  had  to  pass  the 
spot  on  their  way  to  some  other  place,  lingered,  and 
lingered  yet,  as  though  the  attraction  of  that  were 
irresistible.  Meanwhile  the  noise  of  saw  and  mallet 
went  on  briskly,  mingled  with  the  clattering  of 
boards  on  the  stone  pavement  of  the  road,  and 
sometimes  with  the  workmen’s  voices  as  they  called 
to  one  another.  Whenever  the  chimes  of  the  neigh¬ 
boring  church  were  heard  —  and  that  was  every 
quarter  of  an  hour — a  strange  sensation,  instanta- 


246 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


neous  and  indescribable,  but  perfectly  obvious,  seem¬ 
ed  to  pervade  them  all. 

Gradually,  a  faint  brightness  appeared  in  the 
east,  and  the  air,  which  had  been  very  warm  all 
through  the  night,  felt  cool  and  chilly.  Though 
there  was  no  daylight  yet,  the  darkness  was  dimin¬ 
ished,  and  the  stars  looked  pale.  The  prison,  which 
had  been  a  mere  black  mass  with  little  shape  or 
form,  put  on  its  usual  aspect ;  and  ever  and  anon  a 
solitary  watchman  could  be  seen  upon  its  roof,  stop¬ 
ping  to  look  down  upon  the  preparations  in  the 
street.  This  man,  from  forming,  as  it  were,  a  part 
of  the  jail,  and  knowing  or  being  supposed  to  know 
all  that  was  passing  within,  became  an  object  of  as 
much  iuterest,  and  was  as  eagerly  looked  for,  and  as 
awfully  pointed  out,  as  if  he  had  been  a  spirit. 

By-and-by,  the  feeble  light  grew  stronger,  and 
the  houses  with  their  sign-boards  and  inscriptions, 
stood  plainly  out,  in  the  dull  gray  morning.  Heavy 
stage  wagons  crawled  from  the  inn -yard  opposite; 
and  travelers  peeped  out ;  and  as  they  rolled  slug¬ 
gishly  away,  cast  many  a  backward  look  toward  the 
jail.  And  now,  the  sun’s -first  beams  came  glancing 
into  the  street;  and  the  night’s  work,  which,  in  its 
various  stages  and  in  the  varied  fancies  of  the  look¬ 
ers-on  had  taken  a  hundred  shapes,  wore  its  own 
proper  form — a  scaffold,  and  a  gibbet. 

As  the  warmth  of  the  cheerful  day  began  to  shed 
itself  upon  the  scanty  crowd,  the  murmur  of  tongues 
was  heard,  shutters  were  thrown  open,  and  blinds 
drawn  up,  and  those  who  had  slept  in  rooms  over 
against  the  prison,  where  places  to  see  the  execution 
were  let  at  high  prices,  rose  hastily  from  their  beds. 
In  some  of  the  houses,  people  were  busy  taking  out 
the  window-sashes  for  the  better  accommodation  of 
spectators ;  in  others,  the  spectators  were  already 
seated,  and  beguiling  the  time  with  cards,  or  drink, 
or  jokes  among  themselves.  Some  had  purchased 
seats  upon  the  house-tops,  and  were  already  crawl¬ 
ing  to  their  stations  from  parapet  and  garret-win¬ 
dow.  Some  were  yet  bargaining  for  good  places, 
and  stood  in  them  in  a  state  of  indecision :  gazing 
at  the  slowly-swelling  crowd,  and  at  the  workmen 
as  they  rested  listlessly  against  the  scafiold — affect¬ 
ing  to  listen  with  indifference  to  the  proprietor’s  eu¬ 
logy  of  the  commanding  view  his  house  afforded, 
and  the  surpassing  cheapness  of  his  terms. 

A  fairer  morning  never  shone.  From  the  roofs 
and  upper  stories  of  these  buildings,  the  spires  of 
city  churches  and  the  great  cathedral  dome  were 
visible,  rising  up  beyond  the  prison,  into  the  blue 
sky,  and  clad  in  the  color  of  light  summer  clouds, 
and  showing  in  the  clear  atmosphere  their  every 
scrap  of  tracery  and  fretwork,  and  every  niche  and 
loop-hole.  All  was  brightness  and  promise,  except¬ 
ing  in  the  street  below,  into  which  (for  it  yet  lay  in 
shadow)  the  eye  looked  down  as  into  a  dark  trench, 
where,  in  the  midst  of  so  much  life,  and  hope,  and 
renewal  of  existence,  stood  the  terrible  instrument 
of  death.  It  seemed  as  if  the  very  sun  forbore  to 
look  upon  it. 

But  it  was  better,  grim  and  sombre  in  the  shade, 
than  when,  the  day  being  more  advanced,  it  stood 
confessed  in  the  full  glare  and  glory  of  the  sun,  with 
its  black  paint  blistering,  and  its  nooses  dangling  in 
the  light  like  loathsome  garlands.  It  was  better  in 


the  solitude  and  gloom  of  midnight  with  a  few  forms 
clustering  about  it,  than  in  the  freshness  and  the  stir 
of  morning :  the  centre  of  an  eager  crowd.  It  was 
better  haunting  the  street  like  a  spectre,  when  men 
were  in  their  beds,  aud  influencing  perchance  the 
city’s  dreams,  than  braving  the  broad  day,  and  thrust¬ 
ing  its  obscene^ presence  upon  their  waking  senses. 

Five  o’clock  had  struck — six — seven — and  eight. 
Along  the  two  main  streets  at  either  end  of  the  cross¬ 
way,  a  living  stream  had  now  set  in,  rolling  toward 
the  marts  of  gain  and  business.  Carts,  coaches,  wag¬ 
ons,  trucks,  and  barrows  forced  a  passage  through 
the  outskirts  of  the  throng,  and  clattered  onward  in 
the  same  direction.  Some  of  these  which  were  pub¬ 
lic  conveyances  and  had  come  from  a  short  distance 
in  the  country,  stopped ;  and  the  driver  pointed  to 
the  gibbet  with  his  whip,  though  he  might  have 
spared  himself  the  pains,  for  the  heads  of  all  the  pas¬ 
sengers  were  turned  that  way  without  his  help,  and 
the  coacli-wiudows  were  stuck  full  of  staring  eyes. 
In  some  of  the  carts  and  wagons,  women  might  be 
seen,  glancing  fearfully  at  the  same  un sightly  thing ; 
and  even  little  children  were  held  up  above  the  peo¬ 
ple’s  heads  to  see  what  kind  of  a  toy  a  gallows  was, 
and  learn  how  meu  were  hanged. 

Two  rioters  were  to  die  before  the  prison,  who  had 
been  concerned  in  the  attack  upon  it ;  and  one  di¬ 
rectly  afterward  in  Bloomsbury  Square.  At  nine* 
o’clock,  a  strong  body  of  military  marched  into  the 
street,  and  formed  and  lined  a  narrow  passage  into 
Holborn,  which  had  been  indifferently  kept  all  night 
by  constables.  Through  this  another  cart  was 
brought  (the  one  already  mentioned  had  been  em¬ 
ployed  in  the  construction  of  the  scaffold),  and 
wheeled  up  to  the  prison  gate.  These  preparations 
made,  the  soldiers  stood  at  ease ;  the  officers  lounged 
to  and  fro,  in  the  alley  they  had  made,  or  talked  to¬ 
gether  at  the  scaffold’s  foot;  and  the  concourse, 
which  had  been  rapidly  augmenting  for  some  hours, 
and  still  received  additions  every  minute,  waited 
with  an  impatience  which  increased  with  every 
chime  of  St.  Sepulchre’s  clock,  for  twelve  at  noon. 

Up  to  this  time  they  had  been  very  quiet,  com¬ 
paratively  silent,  save  when  the  arrival  of  some  new 
party  at  a  window,  hitherto  unoccupied,  gave  them 
something  new  to  look  at  or  to  talk  of.  But,  as  the 
hour  approached,  a  buzz  and  hum  arose,  which  deep¬ 
ening  every  moment,  soon  swelled  into  a  roar,  and 
seemed  to  fill  the  air.  No  words  or  even  voices 
could  be  distinguished  in  this  clamor,  nor  did  they 
speak  much  to  each  other ;  though  such  as  were  bet¬ 
ter  informed  upon  the  topic  than  the  rest,  would 
tell  their  neighbors,  perhaps,  that  they  might  know 
the  hangman  when  he  came  out,  by  his  being  the 
shorter  one  :  and  that  -the  man  who  was  to  suffer 
with  him  was  named  Hugh;  and  that  it  was  Bar- 
naby  Rudge  who  would  be  hanged  in  Bloomsbury 
Square. 

The  hum  grew,  as  the  time  drew  near,  so  loud 
that  those  who  were  at  the  windows  could  not  hear 
the  church-clock  strike,  though  it  was  close  at  hand. 
Nor  had  they  any  need  to  hear  it,  either,  for  they 
could  see  it  in  the  people’s  faces.  So  surely  as  an¬ 
other  quarter  chimed,  there  was  a  movement  in  the 
crowd — as  if  something  had  passed  over  it — as  if  the 
light  upon  them  had  been  changed — in  which  the 


THE  HORNING  OF  THE  EXECUTION. 


247 


fact  was  readable  as  on  a  brazen  dial,  figured  by  a 
giant’s  band. 

Three  quarters  past  eleven !  The  murmur  now 
was  deafening,  yet  every  man  seemed  mute.  Look 
where  you  would  among  the  crowd,  you  saw  strained 
eyes  and  lips  compressed;  it  would  have  been  diffi¬ 
cult  for  the  most  vigilant  observer  to  point  this  way 
or  that,  and  say  that  yonder  man  had  cried  out.  It 
were  as  easy  to  detect  the  motion  of  lips  in  a  sea-shell. 

Three  quarters  past  eleven !  Many  spectators 
who  had  retired  from  the  windows,  came  back  re¬ 
freshed,  as  though  their  watch  had  just  begun. 
Those  who  had  fallen  asleep,  roused  themselves ; 
and  every  person  in  the  crowd  made  one  last  effort 
to  better  his  position — which  caused  a  press  against 
the  sturdy  barriers  that  made  them  bend  and  yield 
like  twigs.  The  officers,  who  until  now  had  kept 
together,  fell  into  their  several  positions,  and  gave 
the  words  of  command.  Swords  were  drawn,  mus¬ 
kets  shouldered,  and  the  bright  steel  winding  its  way 
among  the  crowd,  gleamed  and  glittered  in  the  sun 
like  a  river.  Along  this  shining  path,  two  men 
came  hurrying  on,  leading  a  horse,  which  was  speed¬ 
ily  harnessed  to  the  cart  at  the  prison  door.  Then, 
a  profound  silence  replaced  the  tumult  that  had  so 
long  been  gathering,  and  a  breathless  pause  ensued. 
Every  window  was  now  choked  up  with  heads ;  the 
house-tops  teemed  with  people  —  clinging  to  chim¬ 
neys,  peering  over  gable-ends,  and  holding  on  where 
the  sudden  loosening  of  any  brick  or  stone  would 
dash  them  down  into  the  street.  The  church  tower, 
the  church  roof,  the  church  -  yard,  the  prison  leads, 
the  very  water-spouts  and  lamp-posts — every  inch 
of  room — swarmed  with  human  life. 

At  the  first  stroke  of  twelve  the  prison  bell  began 
to  toll.  Then  the  roar — mingled  now  with  cries  of 
“Hats  off!”  and  “Poor  fellows!”  and,  from  some 
specks  in  the  great  concourse,  with  a  shriek  or  groan 
— burst  forth  again.  It  was  terrible  to  see — if  any 
one  in  that  distraction  of  excitement  could  have  seen 
— the  world  of  eager  eyes,  all  strained  upon  the  scaf¬ 
fold  and  the  beam. 

The  hollow  murmuring  was  heard  within  the  jail 
as  plainly  as  without.  The  three  were  brought  forth 
into  the  yard,  together,  as  it  resounded  through  the 
air.  They  knew  its  import  well. 

“D’ye  hear?”  cried  Hugh,  undaunted  by  the 
sound.  “  They  expect  us!  I  heard  them  gathering 
when  I  woke  in  the  night,  and  turned  over  on  t’other 
side  and  fell  asleep  again.  We  shall  see  how  they 
welcome  the  hangman,  now  that  it  comes  home  to 
him.  Ha,  ha,  ha!” 

The  Ordinary  coming  up  at  this  moment,  reproved 
him  for  his  indecent  mirth,  and  advised  him  to  alter 
his  demeanor. 

“And  why,  master?”  said  Hugh.  “Can  I  do  bet¬ 
ter  than  bear  it  easily?  You  f>ear  it  easily  enough. 
Oh !  never  tell  me,”  he  cried,  as  the  other  would  have 
spoken,  “for  all  your  sad  look  and  your  solemn  air, 
you  think  little  enough  of  it !  They  say  you’re  the 
best  maker  of  lobster-salads  in  London.  Ha,  ha! 
I’ve  heard  that,  you  see,  before  now.  Is  it  a  good 
one,  this  morning — is  your  hand  in  ?  How  does  the 
breakfast  look  ?  I  hope  there’s  enough,  and  to  spare, 
for  all  this  hungry  company  that’ll  sit  down  to  it, 
when  the  sight’s  over.” 


“  I  fear,”  observed  the  clergyman,  shaking  liis 
head,  “that  you  are  incorrigible.” 

“You’re  right.  I  am,”  rejoined  Hugh,  sternly. 
“  Be  no  hypocrite,  master !  You  make  a  merry-mak¬ 
ing  of  this,  every  month  ;  let  me  be  merry,  too.  If 
you  want  a  frightened  fellow,  there’s  one  that’ll  suit 
you.  Try  your  hand  upon  him.” 

He  pointed,  as  he  spoke,  to  Dennis,  who,  with  his 
legs  trailing  on  the  ground,  was  held  between  two 
men ;  and  who  trembled  so,  that  all  his  joints  and 
limbs  seemed  racked  by  spasms.  Turning  from  this 
wretched  spectacle,  he  called  to  Barnaby,  who  stood 
apart. 

“  What  cheer,  Barnaby  ?  Don’t  be  downcast,  lad. 
Leave  that  to  Mm.” 

“Bless  you,”  cried  Barnaby,  stepping  lightly  to¬ 
ward  him,  “I’m  not  frightened,  Hugh.  I’m  quite 
happy.  I  wouldn’t  desire  to  live  now,  if  they’d  let 
me.  Look  at  me!  Am  I  afraid  to  die?  Will  they 
see  me  tremble  ?” 

Hugh  gazed  for  a  moment  at  his  face,  on  which 
there  was  a  strange,  unearthly  smile ;  and  at  his  eye, 
which  sparkled  brightly;  and  interposing  between 
him  and  the  Ordinary,  gruffiy  whispered  to  the  lat¬ 
ter  : 

“  I  wouldn’t  say  much  to  him,  master,  if  I  was  you. 
He  may  spoil  your  appetite  for  breakfast,  though  you 
are  used  to  it.” 

He  was  the  only  one  of  the  three  wTho  had  washed 
or  trimmed  himself  that  morning.  Neither  of  the 
others  had  done  so  since  their  doom  was  pronounced. 
He  still  wore  the  broken  peacock’s  feathers  in  his  hat ; 
and  all  his  usual  scraps  of  finery  were  carefully  dis¬ 
posed  about  his  person.  His  kindling  eye,  his  firm 
step,  his  proud  and  resolute  bearing,  might  have 
graced  some  lofty  act  of  heroism ;  some  voluntary 
sacrifice,  born  of  a  noble  cause  and  pure  enthusi¬ 
asm,  rather  than  that  felon’s  death. 

But  all  these  things  increased  his  guilt.  They 
were  mere  assumptions.  The  law  had  declared  it 
so,  and  so  it  must  be.  The  good  minister  had  been 
greatly  shocked,  not  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before,  at 
his  parting  with  Grip.  For  one  in  his  condition,  to 
fondle  a  bird  ! — 

The  yard  was  filled  with  people ;  bluff  civic  func¬ 
tionaries,  officers  of  justice,  soldiers,  the  curious  in 
such  matters,  and  guests  who  had  been  bidden  as  to. 
a  wedding.  Hugh  looked  about  him,  nodded  gloom¬ 
ily  to  some  person  in  authority,  who  indicated  with 
his  hand  in  what  direction  he  was  to  proceed;  and 
clapping  Barnaby  on  the  shoulder,  passed  out  with 
the  gait  of  a  lion. 

They  entered  a  large  room,  so  near  to  the  scaffold 
*  that  the  voices  of  those  who  stood  about  it  could  be 
plainly  heard ;  some  beseeching  the  javelin-men  to 
take  them  out  of  the  crowd  ;  others  crying  to  those 
behind,  to  stand  back,  for  they  were  pressed  to  death, 
and  suffocating  for  want  of  air. 

In  the  middle  of  this  chamber,  two  smiths,  with 
hammers,  stood  beside  an  anvil.  Hugh  walked 
straight  up  to  them,  and  set  his  foot  upon  it  with 
a  sound  as  though  it  had  been  struck  by  a  heavy 
weapon.  Then,  with  folded  arms  he  stood  to  have 
his  irons  knocked  off;  scowling  haughtily  round,  as 
those  who  were  present  eyed  him  narrowly  and 
whispered  to  each  other. 


248 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


It  took  so  much  time  to  drag  Dennis  in,  that  this 
ceremony  was  over  with  Hugh,  and  nearly  over  with 
Barnahy,  before  he  appeared.  He  no  sooner  came 
into  the  place  he  knew  so  well,  however,  and  among 
faces  with  which  he  was  so  familiar,  than  he  recov¬ 
ered  strength  and  sense  enough  to  clasp  his  hands 
and  make  a  last  appeal. 

“  Gentlemen,  good  gentlemen,”  cried  the  abject 
creature,  groveling  down  upon  his  knees,  and  act¬ 
ually  prostrating  himself  upon  the  stone  floor : 
“Governor,  dear  governor  —  honorable  sheriffs  — 
worthy  gentlemen — have  mercy  upon  a  wretched 
man  that  has  served  His  Majesty,  and  the  Law,  and 
Parliament,  for  so  many  years,  and  don’t — don’t  let 
me  die — because  of  a  mistake.” 

“  Dennis,”  said  the  governor  of  the  jail,  “  you  know 
what  the  course  is,  and  that  the  order  came  with  the 
rest.  You  know  that  we  could  do  nothing,  even  if 
we  would.” 

“All  I  ask,  sir — all  I  want  and  beg,  is  time,  to  make 
it  sure,”  cried  the  trembliug  wretch,  looking  wildly 
round  for  sympathy.  “  The  King  and  Government 
can’t  know  it’s  me;  I’m  sure  they  can’t  know  it’s 
me ;  or  they  never  would  bring  me  to  this  dreadful 
slaughter-house.  They  know  my  name,  but  they 
don’t  know  it’s  the  same  man.  Stop  my  execution 
— for  charity’s  sake  stop  my  execution,  gentlemen — 
till  they  can  be  told  that  I’ve  been  hangman  here, 
nigh  thirty  year.  Will  no  one  go  and  tell  them?” 
he  implored,  clenching  his  hands  and  glaring  round, 
and  round,  and  round  again — “  will  no  charitable 
person  go  and  tell  them !” 

“  Mr.  Akerman,”  said  a  gentleman  who  stood  by, 
after  a  moment’s  pause,  “since  it  may  possibly  pro¬ 
duce  in  this  unhappy  man  a  better  frame  of  mind, 
even  at  this  last  minute,  let  me  assure  him  that  he 
was  well  known  to  have  been  the  hangman,  when 
his  sentence  was  considered.” 

“ — But  perhaps  they  think  on  that  account  that 
the  punishment’s  not  so  great,”  cried  the  criminal, 
shuffling  toward  this  speaker  on  his  knees,  and  hold¬ 
ing  up  his  folded  hands;  “whereas  it’s  worse,  it’s 
worse  a  hundred  times,  to  me  than  any  man.  Let 
them  know  that,  sir.  Let  them  know  that.  They’ve 
made  it  worse  to  me  by  giving  me  so  much  to  do. 
Stop  my  execution  till  they  know  that !” 

The  governor  beckoned  with  his  hand,  and  the 
two  men,  who  had  supported  him  before,  approached. 
He  uttered  a  piercing  cry  : 

.  “Wait!  Wait.  Only  a  moment — only  one  mo¬ 
ment  more!  Give  me  a  last  chance  of  reprieve. 
One  of  us  three  is  to  go  to  Bloomsbury  Square.  Let 
me  be  the  one.  It  may  come  in  that  time  ;  it’s  sure 
to  come.  In  the  Lord’s  name,  let  me  be  sent  to  Blooms¬ 
bury  Square.  Don’t  hang  me  here.  It’s  murder.” 

They  took  him  to  the  anvil :  but  even  then  he 
could  be  heard  above  the  clinking  of  the  smiths’ 
hammers,  and  the  hoarse  raging  of  the  crowd,  cry¬ 
ing  that  he  knew  of  Hugh’s  birth — that  his  fa,ther 
was  living,  and  was  a  gentleman  of  influence  and 
rank — that  he  had  family  secrets  in  his  possession 
— that  he  could  tell  nothing  unless  they  gave  him 
time,  but  must  die  with  them  on  his  mind ;  and  he 
continued  to  rave  in  this  sort  until  his  voice  failed 
him,  and  he  sank  down  a  mere  heap  of  clothes  be¬ 
tween  the  two  attendants. 


It  was  at  this  moment  that  the  clock  struck  the 
first  stroke  of  twelve,  and  the  bell  began  to  toll. 
The  various  officers,  with  the  two  sheriffs  at  their 
head,  moved  toward  the  door.  All  was  ready  when 
the  last  chime  came  upon  the  ear. 

They  told  Hugh  this,  and  asked  if  he  had  any 
thing  to  say. 

“  To  say !”  he  cried.  “  Not  I.  I’m  ready. — Yes,” 
he  added,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  Barnaby,  “  I  have  a 
word  to  say,  too.  Come  hither,  lad.” 

There  was,  for  the  moment,  something  kind,  and 
even  tender,  struggling  in  his  fierce  aspect,  as  he 
wrung  his  poor  companion  by  the  hand. 

“  I’ll  say  this,”  he  cried,  looking  firmly  round, 
“  that  if  I  had  ten  lives  to  lose,  and  the  loss  of  each 
would  give  me  ten  times  the  agony  of  the  hardest 
death,  I’d  lay  them  all  down — ay  I  would,  though 
you  gentlemen  may  not  believe  it — to  save  this  one. 
This  one,”  he  added,  wringing  his  hand  again,  “that 
will  be  lost  through  me.” 

“  Not  through  you,”  said  the  idiot,  mildly.  “  Don’t 
say  that.  You  were  not  to  blame.  You  have  always 
been  very  good  to  me. — Hugh,  we  shall  know  what 
makes  the  stars  shine,  now  /” 

“  I  took  him  from  her  in  a  reckless  mood,  and  didn’t 
think  what  harm  would  come  of  it,”  said  Hugh,  lay¬ 
ing  his  hand  upon  his  head,  and  speaking  in  a  lower 
voice.  “I  ask  her  pardon,  and  his. — Look  here,” 
he  added  roughly,  in  his  former  tone.  “  You  see  this 
lad  ?” 

They  murmured  “  Yes,”  and  seemed  to  wonder 
why  he  asked. 

“  That  gentleman  yonder — ”  pointing  to  the  cler¬ 
gyman — -“  has  often  in  the  last  few  days  spoken  to 
me  of  faith,  and  strong  belief.  You  see  what  I  am — 
more  brute  than  man,  as  I  have  been  often  told — 
but  I  had  faith  enough  to  believe,  and  did  believe  as 
strongly  as  any  of  you  gentleman  can  believe  any 
thing,  that  this  one  life  would  be  spared.  See  what 
he  is ! — Look  at  him !” 

Barnaby  had  moved  toward  the  door,  and  stood 
beckoning  him  to  follow. 

“If  this  was  not  faith,  and  strong  belief!”  cried 
Hugh,  raising  his  right  arm  aloft,  and  looking  up¬ 
ward  like  a  savage  prophet  whom  the  near  approach 
of  Death  had  filled  with  inspiration,  “  where  are 
they !  What  else  should  teach  me — me,  born  as  I 
was  born,  and  reared  as  I  have  been  reared — to  hope 
for  any  mercy  in  this  hardened,  cruel,  unrelenting 
place !  Upon  these  human  shambles,  I,  who  never 
raised  his  hand  in  prayer  till  now,  call  down  the 
wrath  of  God  !  On  that  black  tree,  of  which  I  am 
the  ripened  fruit,  I  do  invoke  the  curse  of  all  its  vic¬ 
tims,  past,  and  present,  and  to  come.  On  the  head 
of  that  man,  who,  in  his  conscience,  owns  me  for  his 
son,  I  leave  the  wish  that  he  may  never  sicken  on 
his  bed  of  down,  but  die  a  violent  death  as  I  do  now, 
and  have  the  night-wind  for  his  only  mourner.  To 
this  I  say,  Amen,  amen !” 

His  arm  fell  downward  by  his  side ;  he  turned ; 
and  moved  toward  them,  with  a  steady  step,  the  man 
he  had  been  before. 

“  There  is  nothing  more  ?”  said  the  governor. 

Hugh  motioned  Barnaby  not  to  come  near  him 
(though  without  looking  in  the  direction  where  he 
stood)  and  answered,  “  There  is  nothing  more.” 


MR.  WILLET,  SEN.,  STARTS  AN  IDEA. 


249 


“  Move  forward !” 

“  — Unless,”  said  Hugh,  glancing  hurriedly  back, 
— u  unless  any  person  here  has  a  fancy  for  a  dog ; 
and  not  then,  unless  he  means  to  use  him  well. 
There’s  one  belongs  to  me  at  the  house  I  came  from, 
and  it  wouldn’t  he  easy  to  find  a  better.  He’ll  whine 
at  first,  hut  he’ll  soon  get  over  that. — You  wonder 
that  I  think  about  a  dog  just  now,”  he  added,  with 
a  kind  of  laugh.  “  If  any  man  deserved  it  of  me  half 
as  well,  I’d  think  of  Mm.” 

He  spoke  no  more,  but  moved  onward  in  his  place, 
with  a  careless  air,  though  listening  at  the  same 
time  to  the  Service  for  the  Dead,  with  something  be¬ 
tween  sullen  attention  and  quickened  curiosity.  As 
soon  as  he  had  passed  the  door,  his  miserable  asso¬ 
ciate  was  carried  out;  and  the  crowd  beheld  the 
rest. 

Barnaby  would  have  mounted  the  steps  at  the 
same  time — indeed  he  would  have  gone  before  them ; 
but  in  both  attempts  he  was  restrained,  as  he  was 
to  undergo  the  sentence  elsewhere.  In  a  few  min¬ 
utes  the  sheriffs  re-appeared,  the  same  procession  was 
again  formed,  and  they  passed  through  various  rooms 
and  passages  to  another  door  —  that  at  which  the 
cart  was  waiting.  He  held  down  his  head  to  avoid 
seeing  what  he  knew  his  eyes  must  otherwise  en¬ 
counter,  and  took  his  seat  sorrowfully — and  yet  with 
something  of  a  childish  pride  and  pleasure — in  the 
vehicle.  The  officers  fell  into  their  places  at  the  sides, 
in  front,  and  in  the  rear ;  the  sheriffs’  carriages  rolled 
on ;  a  guard  of  soldiers  surrounded  the  whole ;  and 
they  moved  slowly  forward  through  the  throng  and 
pressure  toward  Lord  Mansfield’s  ruined  house. 

It  was  a  sad  sight — all  the  show,  and  strength,  and 
glitter,  assembled  round  one  helpless  creature — and 
sadder  yet  to  note,  as  he  rode  along,  how  his  wander¬ 
ing  thoughts  found  strange  encouragement  in  the 
crowded  windows  and  the  concourse  in  the  streets ; 
and  how,  even  then,  he  felt  the  influence  of  the  bright 
sky,  and  looked  up  smiling,  into  its  deep  unfath¬ 
omable  blue.  But  there  had  been  many  such  sights 
since  the  riots  were  over — some  so  moving  in  their 
nature,  and  so  repulsive  too,  that  they  were  far  more 
calculated  to  awaken  pity  for  the  sufferers,  than  re¬ 
spect  for  that  law  whose  strong  arm  seemed  in  more 
than  one  case  to  be  as  wantonly  stretched  forth  now 
that  all  was  safe,  as  it  had  been  basely  paralyzed  in 
jjtime  of  danger. 

Two  cripples — both  mere  boys — one  with  a  leg  of 
wood,  one  who  dragged  his  twisted  limbs  along  by 
the  help  of  a  crutch,  were  hanged  in  this  same  Blooms¬ 
bury  Square.  As  the  cart  was  about  to  glide  from 
under  them,  it  was  observed  that  they  stood  with 
their  faces  from,  not  to,  the  house  they  had  assist¬ 
ed  to  despoil ;  and  their  misery  was  protracted  that 
this  omission  might  be  remedied.  Another  boy  was 
hanged  in  Bow  Street ;  other  young  lads  in  various 
quarters  of  the  town.  Four  wretched  ^omen,  too, 
were  put  to  death.  In  a  word,  those  who  suffered 
as  rioters  were,  for  the  most  part,  the  weakest,  mean¬ 
est,  and  most  miserable  among  them.  It  was  a  most 
exquisite  satire  upon  the  false  religious  cry  which 
had  led  to  so  much  misery,  that  some  of  these  people 
owned  themselves  to  be  Catholics,  and  begged  to  be 
attended  by  their  own  priests. 

One  young  man  was  hanged  in  Bishopsgate  Street, 


whose  aged  gray-haired  father  waited  for  him  at  the 
gallows,  kissed  him  at  its  foot  when  he  arrived,  and 
sat  there,  on  the  ground,  till  they  took  him  down. 
They  would  have  given  him  the  body  of  his  child  ; 
but  he  had  no  hearse,  no  coffin,  nothing  to  remove  it 
in,  being  too  poor — and  walked  meekly  away  beside 
the  cart  that  took  it  back  to  prison,  trying,  as  he 
went,  to  touch  its  lifeless  hand. 

But  the  crowd  had  forgotten  these  matters,  or 
cared  little  about  them  if  they  lived  in  their  memo¬ 
ry  :  and  while  one  great  multitude  fought  and  hus¬ 
tled  to  get  near  the  gibbet  before  Newgate,  for  a 
parting  look,  another  followed  in  the  train  of  poor 
lost  Barnaby,  to  swell  the  throng,  that  waited  for 
him  on  the  spot. 

- « - „ 

CHAPTER  LXXVIII. 

N  this  same  day,  and  about  this  very  hour,  Mr. 
Willet  the  elder  sat  smoking  his  pipe  in  a  cham¬ 
ber  at  the  Black  Lion.  Although  it  was  hot  summer 
weather,  Mr.  Willet  sat  close  to  the  fire.  He  was  in 
a  state  of  profound  cogitation  with  his  own  thoughts, 
and  it  was  his  custom  at  such  times  to  stew  himself 
slowly  under  the  impression  that  that  process  of 
cookery  wTas  favorable  to  the  melting  out  of  his 
ideas,  which,  when  he  began  to  simmer,  sometimes 
oozed  forth  so  copiously  as  to  astonish  even  himself. 

Mr.  Willet  had  been  several  thousand  times  com¬ 
forted  by  his  friends  and  acquaintance,  with  the  as¬ 
surance  that  for  the  loss  he  had  sustained  in  the  dam¬ 
age  done  to  the  Maypole,  he  could  “  come  upon  the 
county.”  But  as  this  phrase  happened  to  bear  an 
unfortunate  resemblance  to  the  popular  expression 
of  “coming  on  the  parish,”  it  suggested  to  Mr.  Wil- 
iet’s  lnind  no  more  consolatory  visions  than  pauper¬ 
ism  on  an  extensive  scale,  and  ruin  in  a  capacious 
aspect.  Consequently,  he  had  never  failed  to  receive 
the  intelligence  with  a  rueful  shake  of  the  head,  or 
a  dreary  stare,  and  had  been  always  observed  to  ap¬ 
pear  much  more  melancholy  after  a  visit  of  condo¬ 
lence  than  at  any  other  time  in  the  whole  four-and- 
twenty  hours. 

It  chanced,  however,  that  sitting  over  the  fire  on 
this  particular  occasion — perhaps  because  he  was,  as 
it  were,  done  to  a  turn ;  perhaps  because  he  was  in 
an  unusually  bright  state  of  mind ;  perhaps  because 
he  had  considered  the  subject  so  long ;  perhaps  be¬ 
cause  of  all  these  favoring  circumstances,  taken  to¬ 
gether — it  chanced  that,  sitting  over  the  fire  on  this 
particular  occasion,  Mr.  Willet  did,  afar  off  and  in 
the  remotest  depths  of  his  intellect,  perceive  a  kind 
of  lurking  hint  or  faint  suggestion,  that  out  of  the 
public  purse  there  might  issue  funds  for  the  restora¬ 
tion  of  the  Maypole  to  its  former  high  place  among 
the  taverns  of  the  earth.  And  this  dim  ray  of  light 
did  so  diffuse  itself  within  him,  and  did  so  kindle  up 
and  shine,  that  at  last  he  had  it  as  plainly  and  visibly 
before  him  as  the  blaze  by  which  he  sat ;  and,  fully 
persuaded  that  he  was  the  first  to  make  the  discov¬ 
ery,  and  that  he  had  started,  hunted  down,  fallen 
upon,  and  knocked  on  the  head,  a  perfectly  original 
idea  which  had  never  presented  itself  to  any  other 
man,  alive  or  dead,  he  laid  down  his  pipe,  rubbed 
his  hands,  and  chuckled  audibly. 


250 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


“  Why,  father !”  cried  Joe,  entering  at  the  moment, 
“  you’re  in  spirits  to-day  !” 

“  It’s  notliiug  partickler,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  chuc¬ 
kling  again.  “  It’s  nothing  at  all  partickler,  Joseph. 
Tell  me  something  about  the  Salwanners.”  Haviug 
preferred  this  request,  Mr.  Willet  chuckled  a  third 
time,  and  after  these  unusual  demonstrations  of  lev¬ 
ity,  he  put  his  pipe  in  his  mouth  again. 

“  What  shall  I  tell  you,  father  ?”  asked  Joe,  laying 
his  hand  upon  his  sire’s  shoulder,  and  looking  down 
into  his  face.  “  That  I  have  come  back,  poorer  than 
a  church  mouse?  You  know  that.  That  I  have 
come  back,  maimed  and  crippled  ?  You  know  that.” 

“It  was  took  off,”  muttered  Mr.  Willet,  with  his 
eyes  upon  the  fire,  “  at  the  defense  of  the  Salwanners, 
in  America,  where  the  war  is.” 

“  Quite  right,”  returned  Joe,  smiling,  and  leaning 
with  his  remaining  elbow  on  the  back  of  liis  father’s 
chair;  “the  very  subject  I  came  to  speak  to  you 
about.  A  man  with  one  arm,  father,  is  not  of  much 
use  in  the  busy  world.” 

This  was  one  of  those  vast  propositions  which  Mr. 
Willet  had  never  considered  for  an  instant,  and  re¬ 
quired  time  to  “tackle.”  Wherefore  he  made  no 
answer. 

“At  all  events,”  said  Joe,  “he  can’t  pick  and  choose 
his  means  of  earning  a  livelihood,  as  another  man 
may.  He  can’t  say  1 1  will  turn  my  hand  to  this,’ 
or  1 1  won’t  thru  my  hand  to  that,’  but  must  take 
what  he  can  do,  and  be  thankful  it’s  no  worse. — 
What  did  you  say  ?” 

Mr.  Willet  had  been  softly  repeating  to  himself,  in 
a  musing  tone,  the  words  “defense  of  the  Salwan¬ 
ners  but  he  seemed  embarrassed  at  having  been 
overheard,  and  answered,  “  Nothing.” 

“Now  look  here,  father. — Mr.  Edward  has  come 
to  England  from  the  West  Indies.  When  he  was 
lost  sight  of  (I  ran  away  on  the  same  day,  father), 
he  made  a  voyage  to  one  of  the  islands,  where  a 
school-friend  of  his  had  settled ;  and,  finding  him, 
wasn’t  too  proud  to  be  employed  ou  his  estate,  and 
— and  in  short,  got  on  well,  and  is  prospering,  and 
has  come  over  here  on  business  of  his  own,  and  is 
going  back  again  speedily.  Our  returning  nearly 
at  the  same  time,  and  meeting  in  the  course  of  the 
late  troubles,  has  been  a  good  thing  every  way;  for 
it  has  not  only  enabled  us  to  do  old  friends  some 
service,  but  has  opened  a  path  in  life  for  me  which 
I  may  tread  without  being  A  burden  upon  you.  To 
be  plain,  father,  he  can  employ  me ;  I  have  satisfied 
myself  that  I  can  be  of  real  use  to  him ;  and  I  am  go¬ 
ing  to  carry  my  one  arm  away  with  him,  and  to  make 
the  most  of  it.” 

In  the  mind’s  eye  of  Mr.  Willet,  the  West  Indies, 
and  indeed  all  foreign  countries,  were  inhabited  by 
savage  nations,  who  were  perpetually  burying  pipes 
of  peace,  flourishing  tomahawks,  and  puncturing 
strange  patterns  in  their  bodies.  He  no  sooner  heard 
this  announcement,  therefore,  than  he  leaned  back 
in  his  chair,  took  his  pipe  from  his  lips,  and  stared 
at  his  son  with  as  much  dismay  as  if  he  already  be¬ 
held  him  tied  to  a. stake,  and  tortured  for  the  enter¬ 
tainment  of  a  lively  population.  In  what  form  of 
expression  his  feelings  would  have  found  a  vent,  it 
is  impossible  to  say.  Nor  is  it  necessary :  for,  before 
a  syllable  occurred  to  him,  Dolly  Var^en  came  run¬ 


ning  into  the  room,  in  tears,  threw  herself  on  Joe’s 
breast  without  a  word  of  explanation,  and  clasped 
her  white  arms  round  his  neck. 

“Dolly!”  cried  Joe.  “Dolly!” 

“Ay,  call  me  that ;  call  me  that  always,”  exclaimed 
the  lock-smith’s  little  daughter;  “  never  speak  coldly 
to  me,  never  be  distant,  never  again  reprove  me  for 
the  follies  I  have  long  repented,  or  I  shall  die,  Joe.” 

“/  reprove  you !”  said  Joe.  * 

“Yes — for  every  kind  and  honest  word  you  ut¬ 
tered,  went  to  my  heart.  For  you,  who  have  borne 
so  much  from  me — for  you,  who  owe  your  sufferings 
and  pain  to  my  caprice — for  you  to  be  so  kind — so 
noble  to  me,  Joe — ” 

He  could  say  nothing  to  her.  Not  a  syllable. 
There  was  an  odd  sort  of  eloquence  in  his  one  arm, 
which  had  crept  round  her  waist :  but  his  lips  were 
mute. 

“  If  you  had  reminded  me  by  a  word — only  by  one 
short  word,”  sobbed  Dolly,  clinging  yet  closer  to  him, 
“  how  little  I  deserved  that  you  should  treat  me  with 
so  much  forbearance ;  if  you  had  exulted  only  for  one 
moment  in  your  triumph,  I  could  have  borne  it  bet¬ 
ter.” 

“Triumph!”  repeated  Joe,  with  a  smile  which 
seemed  to  say,  “  I  am  a  pretty  figure  for  that.” 

“Yes,  triumph,”  she  cried,  with  her  whole  heart 
and  soul  in  her  earnest  voice,  and  gushing  voice ; 
“  for  it  is  one.  I  am  glad  to  think  and  know  it  is. 
I  wouldu’t  be  less  humbled,  dear  —  I  wouldn’t  be 
without  the  recollection  of  that  last  time  we  spoke 
together  in  this  place — no,  not  if  I  could  recall  the 
past,  and  make  our  parting,  yesterday.” 

Did  ever  lover  look  as  Joe  looked  now ! 

“Dear  Joe,”  said  Dolly,  “I  always  loved  you — in 
my  own  heart  I  always  did,  although  I  was  so  vain 
and  giddy.  I  hoped  you  would  come  back  that  night. 
I  made  quite  sure  you  would.  I  prayed  for  it  on  my 
knees.  Through  all  these  long,  long  years,  I  have 
.never  once  forgotten  you,  or  left  off  hoping  that  this 
happy  time  might  come.” 

The  eloquence  of  Joe’s  arm  surpassed  the  most 
impassioned  language ;  and  so  did  that  of  his  lips — 
yet  lie  said  nothing,  either. 

“And  now,  at  last,”  cried  Dolly,  trembling  with 
the  fervor  of  her  speech,  “  if  you  were  sick,  and  shat¬ 
tered  in  your  every  limb ;  if  you  were  ailing,  weak, 
and  sorrowful ;  if,  instead  of  being  what  you  are,  you.- 
were  in  every  body’s  eyes  but  mine  the  wreck  and 
ruin  of  a  man  ;  I  would  be  your  wife,  dear  love,  with 
greater  pride  and  joy,  than  if  you  were  the  stateliest 
lord  in  England !” 

“  What  have  I  done,”  cried  Joe,  “  what  have  I 
done  to  meet  with  this  reward?” 

“  You  have  taught  me,”  said  Dolly,  raising  her 
pretty  face  to  his,  “  to  know  myself,  and  your  worth ; 
to  be  something  better  than  I  was ;  to  be  more  de¬ 
serving  of  your  true  and  manly  nature.  In  years  to 
come,  dear  Joe,  you  shall  find  that  you  have  done  so; 
for  I  will  be,  not  only  now,  when  we  are  young  and 
full  of  hope,  but  when  we  have  grown  old  and  wea¬ 
ry,  your  patient,  gentle,  never-tiring  wife.  I  will 
never  know  a  wish  or  care  beyond  our  home  and 
yqu,  and  I  will  always  study  how  to  please  you  with 
my  best  affection  and  my  most  devoted  love.  I  will: 
iudeed  I  will!” 


DOLLY  COMES  OUT  DELIGHTFULLY. 


251 


Joe  could  only  repeat  his  former  eloquence — but 
it  was  very  much  to  the  purpose. 

“They  know  of  this,  at  home,”  said  Dolly.  “For 
your  sake,  I  would  leave  even  them  ;  but  they  know 
it,  and  are  glad  of  it,  and  are  as  proud  of  you  as  I  am, 
and  as  full  of  gratitude. — You’ll  not  come  and  see 
me  as  a  poor  friend  who  knew  me  when  I  was  a 
girl,  will  you,  dear  Joe  V’ 

Well,  well!  It  don’t  matter  what  Joe  said  in  an¬ 
swer,  hut  he  said  a  great  deal;  and  Dolly  said  a 
great  deal  too :  and  he  folded  Dolly  in  his  one  arm 
pretty  tight,  considering  that  it  was  bnt  one;  and 
Dolly  made  no  resistance :  and  if  ever  two  people 
were  happy  in  this  world — which  is  not  an  utterly 
miserable  one,  with  all  its  faults — we  may,  with 
some  appearance  of  certainty,  conclude  that  they 
were. 

To  say  that  during  these  proceedings  Mr.  Willet 
the  elder  underwent  the  greatest  emotions  of  aston¬ 
ishment  of  which  our  common  nature  is  susceptible 
— to  say  that  he  was  in  a  perfect  paralysis  of  sur¬ 
prise,  and  that  he  wandered  into  the  most  stupen¬ 
dous  and  theretofore  unattainable  heights  of  com¬ 
plicated  amazement — would  be  to  shadow  forth  his 
state  of  mind  in  the  feeblest  and  lamest  terms.  If  a 
roc,  an  eagle,  a  griffin,  a  flying  elephant,  a  winged 
sea-horse,  had  suddenly  appeared,  and,  taking  him 
on  its  back,  carried  him  bodily  into  the  heart  of  the 
“  Salwanners,”  it  would  have  been  to  him  as  an 
every-day  occurrence,  in  comparison  with  what  he 
now  beheld.  To  be  sitting  quietly  by,  seeing  and 
hearing  these  things ;  to  be  completely  overlooked, 
unnoticed,  and  disregarded,  while  his  son  and  a 
young  lady  were  talking  to  each  other  in  the  most 
impassioned  manner,  kissing  each  other,  and  making 
themselves  in  all  respects  perfectly  at  home ;  was  a 
position  so  tremendous,  so  inexplicable,  so  utterly 
beyond  the  widest  range  of  his  capacity  of  compre¬ 
hension,  that  he  fell  into  a  lethargy  of  wonder,  and 
could  no  more  rouse  himself  than  an  enchanted 
sleeper  in  the  first  year  of  his  fairy  lease,  a  century 
long. 

“  Father,”  said  Joe,  presenting  Dolly.  “  You 
know  who  this  is  ?” 

Mr.  Willet  looked  first  at  her,  then  at  his  son,  then 
back  again  at  Dolly,  and  then  made  an  ineffectual 
effort  to  extract  a  whiff  from  his  pipe,  which  had 
gone  out  long  ago. 

“Say  a  word,  father,  if  it’s  only  ‘how  d’ye  do,’” 
urged  Joe. 

“Certainly,  Joseph,”  answered  Mr.  Willet.  “Oh 
yes!  Why  not?” 

“  To  be  sure,”  said  Joe.  “  Why  not  ?” 

“Ah !”  replied  his  father.  “  Why  not  ?”  and  with 
this  remark,  which  he  uttered  in  a  low  voice  as 
though  he  were  discussing  some  grave  question  with 
himself,  he  used  the  little  finger — if  any  of  his  fin¬ 
gers  can  be  said  to  have  come  under  that  denomina¬ 
tion —  of  his  right  hand  as  a  tobacco-stopper,  and 
was  silent  again. 

And  so  he  sat  for  half  an  hour  at  least,  although 
Dolly,  in  the  most  endearing  of  manners,  hoped,  a 
dozen  times,  that  he  was  not  angry  with  her.  So  he 
sat  for  half  an  hour,  quite  motionless,  and  looking 
all  the  while  like  nothing  so  much  as  a  great  Dutch 
pin  or  skittle.  At  the  expiration  of  that  period,  he 


suddenly,  and  without  the  least  notice,  burst  (to  the 
great  consternation  of  the  young  people)  into  a  very 
loud  and  very  short  laugh  ;  and  repeating  “  Certain¬ 
ly,  Joseph.  Oh  yes  !  Why  not  went  out  for  a 
walk. 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

OLD  JOHN  did  not  walk  near  the  Golden  Key, 
for  between  the  Golden  Key  and  the  Black  Lion 
there  lay  a  wilderness  of  streets — as  every  body 
knows  who  is  acquainted  with  the  relative  bearings 
of  Clerkenwell  and  Whitechapel — and  he  was  by  no 
means  famous  for  pedestrian  exercises.  But  the 
Golden  Key  lies  in  our  way,  though  it  was  out  of 
his ;  so  to  the  Golden  Key  this  chapter  goes. 

The  Golden  Key  itself,  *fair  emblem  of  the  lock¬ 
smith’s  trade,  had  been  pulled  down  by  the  rioters, 
and  roughly  trampled  under  foot.  But,  now,  it  was 
hoisted  up  again  in  all  the  glory  of  a  new  coat  of 
paint,  and  showed  more  bravely  even  than  in  days 
of  yore.  Indeed  the  whole  house-front  was  spruce 
and  trim,  and  so  freshened  up  throughout,  that  if 
there  yet  remained  at  large  any  of  the  rioters  who 
had  been  concerned  in  the  attack  upon  it,  the  sight 
of  the  old,  goodly,  prosperous  dwelling,  so  revived, 
must  have  been  to  them  as  gall  and  wormwood. 

The  shutters  erf  the  shop  were  closed,  however, 
and  the  window-blinds  above  were  all  pulled  down, 
and  in  place  of  its  usual  cheerful  appearance,  the 
hoeise  had  a  look  of  sadness  and  an  air  of  mourning ; 
which  the  neighbors,  who  in  old  days  had  often  seen 
poor  Barnaby  go  in  and  out,  were  at  no  loss  to  under¬ 
stand.  The  door  stood  partly  open ;  but  the  lock¬ 
smith’s  hammer  was  unheard ;  the  cat  sat  moping 
on  the  ashy  forge ;  all  was  deserted,  dark,  and  silent. 

On  the  threshold  of  this  door,  Mr.  Haredale  and 
Edward  Chester  met.  The  younger  man  gave  place ; 
and  both  passing  in  with  a  familiar  air,  which  seem¬ 
ed  to  denote  that  they  were  tarrying  there,  or  were 
well-accustomed  to  go  to  and  fro  unquestioned,  shut 
it  behind  them. 

Entering  the  old  back  parlor,  and  ascending  the 
flight  of  stairs,  abrupt  and  steep,  and  quaintly  fash¬ 
ioned  as  of  old,  they  turned  into  the  best  room ;  the 
pride  of  Mrs.  Varden ’s  heart,  and  erst  the  scene  of 
Miggs’s  household  labors. 

“Varden  brought  the  mother  here  last  evening, 
he  told  me  ?”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  She  is  above  stairs  now — in  the  room  over  here,” 
Edward  rejoined.  “Her  grief,  they  say,  is  past  all 
telling.  I  needn’t  add — for  that  you  know  before¬ 
hand,  sir — that  the  care,  humanity,  and  sympathy 
of  these  good  people  have  no  bounds.” 

I  am  sure  of  that.  Heaven  repay  them  for  it, 
and  for  much  more.  Varden  is  out  ?”* 

“  He  returned  with  your  messenger,  who  arrived 
almost  at  tfie  moment  of  his  coming  home  himself. 
He  was  out  the  whole  night — but  that  of  course  you 
know.  He  was  with  you  the  greater  part  of  it  ?” 

“He  was.  Without  him,  I  should  have  lacked 
my  right  hand.  He  is  an  older  man  than  I;  but 
nothing  can  conquer  him.” 

“The  cheeriest,  stoutest -hearted  fellow  in  the 
world.” 


252 


BARNABY  RTJDGE. 


“  He  has  a  right  to  be.  He  has  a  right  to  he.  A 
better  creature  never  lived.  He  reaps  what  he  has 
sown — no  more.” 

“  It  is  not  all  men,”  said  Edward,  after  a  mo¬ 
ment's  hesitation,  “who  have  the  happiness  to  do 
that.” 

“  More  than  you  imagine,”  returned  Mr.  Haredale. 
“We  note  the  harvest  more  than  the  seed-time. 
You  do  so  in  me.” 

In  truth  his  pale  and  haggard  face,  and  gloomy 
hearing,  had  so  far  influenced  the  remark,  that  Ed¬ 
ward  was,  for  the  moment,  at  a  loss  to  answer  him. 

“Tut,  tut,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “’twas  not  very 
difficult  to  read  a  thought  so  natural.  But  you  are 
mistaken  nevertheless.  I  have  had  my  share  of  sor¬ 
rows — more  than  the  common  lot,  perhaps,  hut  I 
have  borne  them  ill.  I  have  broken  where  I  should 
have  bent ;  and  have  rnffsed  and  brooded,  when  my 
spirit  should  have  mixed  with  all  God’s  great  crea¬ 
tion.  The  men  who  learn  endurance,  are  they  who 
call  the  whole  world,  brother.  I  have  turned  from 
the  world,  and  I  pay  the  penalty.” 

Edward  would  have  interposed,  but  he  went  on 
without  giviug  him  time. 

“It  is  too  late  to  evade  it  now.  I  sometimes 
think;  that  if  I  had  to  live  my  life  once  more,  I  might 
amend  this  fault — not  so  much,  I  discover  when  I 
search  my  mind,  for  the  love  of  what  is  right,  as  for 
my  own  sake.  But  even  when  I  make  these  better 
resolutions,  I  instinctively  recoil  from  the  idea  of 
suffering  again  what  I  have  undergone;  and  in  this 
circumstance  I  find  the  unwelcome  assurance  that 
I  should  still  be  the  same  man,  though  I  could  can¬ 
cel  the  past,  and  begin  anew,  with  its  experience  to 
guide  me.” 

“  Nay,  you  make  too  sure  of  that,”  said  Edward. 

“You  think  so,”  Mr.  Haredale  answered,  “and  I 
am  glad  you  do.  I  know  myself  better,  and  there¬ 
fore  distrust  myself  more.  Let  us  leave  this  subject 
for  another— not  so  far  removed  from  it  as  it  might, 
at  first  sight,  seem  to  be.  Sir,  you  still  love  my 
niece,  and  she  is  still  attached  to  you.” 

“  I  have  that  assurance  from  her  own  lips,”  said 
Edward,  “and  you  know — I  am  sure  you  know — 
that  I  would  not  exchange  it  for  any  blessing  life 
could  yield  me.” 

“You  are  frank,  honorable,  and  disinterested,” 
said  Mr.  Haredale  ;  “  you  have  forced  the  conviction 
that  you  are  so,  even  on  my  once-jaundiced  mind, 
and  I  believe  you.  Wait  here  till  I  come  back.” 

He  left  the  room  as  he  spoke;  but  soon  returned 
with  his  niece. 

“  On  that  first  and  only  time,”  he  said,  looking 
from  the  one  to  the  other,  “  when  we  three  stood  to¬ 
gether  under  her  father’s  roof,  I  told  you  to  quit  it, 
and  charged  you  never  to  return.” 

“  It  is  the  mnly  circumstance  arising  out  of  our 
love,”  observed  Edward,  “  that  I  have  forgotten.” 

“You  own  a  name,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “I  had 
deep  reason  to  remember.  I  was  moved  and  goaded 
by  recollections  of  personal  wrong  and  injury,  I 
know,  but,  even  now  I  can  not  charge  myself  with 
having,  then,  or  ever,  lost  sight  of  a  heartfelt  desire 
for  her  true  happiness ;  or  with  having  acted — how¬ 
ever  much  I  was  mistaken — with  any  other  impulse 
than  the  one  pure,  single,  earnest  wish  to  be  to  her, 


as  far  as  in  my  inferior  nature  lay,  the  father  she 
had  lost.” 

“  Dear  uncle,”  cried  Emma,  “  I  have  known  no 
parent  but  you.  I  have  loved  the  memory  of  others, 
but  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life.  Never  was  father 
kinder  to  his  child  than  you  have  been  to  me,  with¬ 
out  the  interval  of  one  harsh  hour,  since  I  can  first 
remember.” 

“  You  speak  too  fondly,”  he  answered,  “  and  yet 
I  can  not  wish  you  were  less  partial ;  for  I  have  a 
pleasure  in  hearing  those  words,  and  shall  have  in 
calling  them  to  mind  when  we  are  far  asunder,  which 
nothing  else  could  give  me.  Bear  with  me  for  a 
moment  longer,  Edward,  for  she  and  I  have  been  to¬ 
gether  many  years ;  and  although  I  believe  that  in 
resigning  her  to  you  I  put  the  seal  upon  her  future 
happiness,  I  find  it  needs  an  effort.” 

He  pressed  her  tenderly  to  his  bosom,  and  after  a 
minute’s  pause,  resumed : 

“  I  have  done  you  wrong,  sir,  and  I  ask  your  for¬ 
giveness — in  no  common  phrase,  or  show  of  sorrow  ; 
but  with  earnestness  and  sincerity.  In  the  same 
spirit,  I  acknowledge  to  you  both  that  the  time  has 
been  when  I  connived  at  treachery  and  falsehood — 
which  if  I  did  not  perpetrate  myself,  I  still  permitted 
— to  rend  you  two  asunder.” 

“You  judge  yourself  too  harshly,”  said  Edward. 
“  Let  these  things  rest.” 

“  They  rise  in  judgment  against  me  when  I  look 
back,  and  not  now  for  the  first  time,”  he  answered. 
“  I  can  not  part  from  you  without  your  full  forgive¬ 
ness  ;  for  busy  life  and  I  have  little  left  in  common 
now,  and  I  have  regrets  enough  to  carry  into  soli¬ 
tude,  without  addition  to  the  stock.” 

“  You  bear  a  blessing  from  us  both,”  said  Emma. 
“  Never  mingle  thoughts  of  me — of  me  who  owe  you 
so  much  love  and  duty — with  any  thing  but  undy¬ 
ing  affection  and  gratitude  for  the  past,  and  bright 
hopes  for  the  future.” 

“  The  future,”  returned  her  uncle,  with  a  melan¬ 
choly  smile,  “  is  a  bright  word  for  you,  and  its  image 
should  be  wreathed  with  cheerful  hopes.  Mine  is 
of  another  kind,  but  it  will  be  one  of  peace,  and 
free,  I  trust,  from  care  or  passion.  When  you  quit 
England  I  shall  leave  it  too.  There  are  cloisters 
abroad ;  and  now  that  the  two  great  objects  of  my 
life  are  set  at  rest,  I  know  no  better  home.  You 
droop  at  that,  forgetting  that  I  am  growing  old,  and 
that  my  course  is  nearly  run.  Well,  we  will  speak 
of  it  again — not  once  or  twice,  but  many  times ;  and 
you  shall  give  me  cheerful  counsel,  Emma.” 

“And  you  will  take  it  ?”  asked  his  niece. 

“  I’ll  listen  to  it,”  he  answered,  with  a  kiss,  “  and 
it  will  have  its  weight,  be  certain.  What  have  I 
left  to  say  ?  You  have,  of  late,  been  much  together. 
It  is  better  and  more  fitting  that  the  circumstances 
attendant  on  the  past,  which  wrought  your  separa¬ 
tion,  and  sowed  between  you  suspicion  and  distrust, 
should  not  be  entered  on  by  me.” 

“Much,  much  better,”  whispered  Emma. 

“  I  avow  my  share  in  them,”  said  Mr.  Haredale, 
“though  I  held  it,  at  the  time,  in  detestation.  Let 
no  man  turn  aside,  ever  so  slightly,  from  the  broad 
path  of  honor,  on  the  plausible  pretense  that  he  is 
justified  by  the  goodness  of  his  end.  All  good  ends 
can  be  worked  out  by  good  means.  Those  that  can 


LIBRARY 
Of  |  Hr 

Mivasn >  of 


4 


* 


\ 


/ 


AMONG  A  DENSE  MOD  OF  VERSONS  T1IE  LOCKSMITH’S  BUDDY  FACE  AND  BURLY  FORM  COULD  BE  DESCRIED. 


A  FREE  PARDON  TO  BARNABY. 


253 


not,  are  bad;  and  may  be  counted  so  at  once,  and 
left  alone.” 

He  looked  from  her  to  Edward,  and  said,  in  a  gen¬ 
tler  tone : 

“  In  goods  and  fortune  you  are  now  nearly  equal. 
I  have  been  her  faithful  steward,  and  to  that  rem¬ 
nant  of  a  richer  property  which  my  brother  left  her, 
I  desire  to  add,  in  token  of  my  love,  a  poor  pittance, 
scarcely  worth  the  mention,  for  which  I  have  no 
longer  any  need.  I  am  glad  you  go  abroad.  Let 
our  ill-fated  house  remain  the  ruin  it  is.  When  you 
return,  after  a  few  thriving  years,  you  will  command 
a  better  and  a  more  fortunate  one.  We  are  friends  ?” 

Edward  took  his  extended  hand,  and  grasped  it 
heartily. 

“  You  are  neither  slow  nor  cold  in  your  response,” 
said  Mr.  Haredale,  doing  the  like  by  him,  “and  when 
I  look  upon  you  now,  and  know  you,  I  feel  that  I 
would  choose  you  for  her  husband.  Her  father  had 
a  generous  nature,  and  you  would  have  pleased  him 
well.  I  give  her  to  you  in  his  name,  and  with  his 
blessing.  If  the  world  and  I  part  in  this  act,  we 
part  on  happier  terms  than  we  have  lived  for  many 
a  day.” 

He  placed  her  in  his  arms,  and  would  have  left  the 
room,  but  that  he  was  stopped  in  his  passage  to  the 
door  by  a  great  noise  at  a  distance,  which  made  them 
start  and  pause. 

It  was  a  loud  shouting,  mingled  with  boisterous 
acclamations,  that  rent  the  very  air.  It  drew  near¬ 
er  and  nearer  every  moment,  and  approached  so 
rapidly,  that,  even  while  they  listened,  it  burst  into 
a  deafening  confusion  of  sounds  at  that  street  corner. 

“This  must  be  stopped — quieted,”  said  Mr.  Hare- 
dale,  hastily.  “  We  should  have  foreseen  this,  and 
provided  against  it.  I  will  go  out  to  them  at  once.” 

But,  before  he  could  reach  the  door,  and  before 
Edward  could  catch  up  his  hat  and  follow  him,  they 
were  again  arrested  by  a  loud  shriek  from  above 
stairs:  and  the  lock -smith’s  wife,  bursting  in  and 
fairly  running  in  Mr.  Haredale’s  arms,  cried  out : 

“She  knows  it  all,  dear  sir!— she  knows  it  all! 
We  broke  it  out  to  her  by  degrees,  and  she  is  quite 
prepared.”  Having  made  this  communication,  and 
furthermore  thanked  Heaven  with  great  fervor  and 
heartiness,  the  good  lady,  according  to  the  custom 
of  matrons,  on  all  occasions  of  excitement,  fainted 
away  directly. 

They  ran  to  the  window,  drew  up  the  sash,  and 
looked  into  the  crowded  street.  Among  a  dense  mob 
of  persons,  of  whom  not  one  was  for  an  instant  still, 
the  lock-smith’s  ruddy  face  and  burly  form  could  be 
descried,  beating  about  as  though  he  was  struggling 
with  a  rough  sea.  Now,  he  was  carried  back  a  score 
of  yards,  now  onward  nearly  to  the  door,  now  back 
again,  now  forced  against  the  opposite  houses,  now 
against  those  adjoining  his  own  :  now  carried  up  a 
flight  of  steps,  and  greeted  by  the  outstretched  hands 
of  half  a  hundred  men,  while  the  whole  tumultuous 
concourse  stretched  their  throats,  and  cheered  with 
all  their  might.  Though  he  was  really  in  a  fair  way 
to  be  torn  to  pieces  in  the  general  enthusiasm,  the 
lock-smith,  nothing  discomposed,  echoed  their  shouts 
till  he  was  as  hoarse  as  they,  and  in  a  glow  of  joy 
and  right  good  humor,  waved  his  hat  until  the  day¬ 
light  shone  between  its  brim  and  crown. 


But  in  all  the  bandyings  from  hand  to  hand,  and 
strivings  to  and  fro,  and  sweepings  here  and  there, 
which — saving  that  he  looked  more  jolly  and  more 
radiant  after  every  struggle — troubled  his  peace  of 
mind  no  more  than  if  he  had  been  a  straw  upon  the 
water’s  surface,  he  never  once  released  his  firm  grasp 
of  an  arm,  drawn  tight  through  his.  He  sometimes 
turned  to  clap  this  friend  upon  the  back,  or  whisper 
in  his  ear  a  word  of  staunch  encouragement,  or  cheer 
him  with  a  smile ;  but  his  great  care  was  to  shield 
him  from  the  pressure,  and  force  a  passage  for  him 
to  the  Golden  Key.  Passive  and  timid,  scared,  pale, 
and  wondering,  and  gazing  at  the  throng  as  if  he 
were  newly  risen  from  the  dead,  and  felt  himself  a 
ghost  among  the  living,  Barnaby — not  Barnaby  in 
the  spirit,  but  in  flesh  and  blood,  with  pulses,  sin¬ 
ews,  nerves,  and  beating  heart,  and  strong  affections 
— clung  to  his  stout  old  friend,  and  followed  where 
he  led. 

And  thus,  in  course  of  time,  they  reached  the  door, 
held  ready  for  their  entrance  by  no  unwilling  hands. 
Then  slipping  in,  and  shutting  out  the  crowd  by  main 
force,  Gabriel  stood  between  Mr.  Haredale  and  Ed¬ 
ward  Chester,  and  Barnaby,  rushing  up  the  stairs, 
fell  upon  his  knees  beside  his  mother’s  bed. 

“  Such  is  the  blessed  end,  sir,”  cried  the  panting 
lock-smith,  to  Mr.  Haredale,  “  of  the  best  day’s  work 
we  ever  did.  The  rogues !  it’s  been  hard  fighting  to 
get  away  from  ’em.  I  almost  thought,  once  or  twice, 
they’d  have  been  too  much  for  us  with  their  kind¬ 
ness  !” 

They  had  striven,  all  the  previous  day,  to  rescue 
Barnaby  from  his  impending  fate.  Failing  in  their 
attempts,  in  the  first  quarter  to  which  they  addressed 
themselves,  they  renewed  them  in  another.  Failing 
there,  likewise,  they  began  afresh  at  midnight ;  and 
made  their  way,  not  only  to  the  judge  and  jury  who 
had  tried  ’(him,  but  to  men  of  influence  at  court,  to 
the  young  Prince  of  Wales,  and  even  to  the  ante¬ 
chamber  of  the  King  himself.  Successful,  at  last,  in 
awakening  an  interest  in  his  favor  and  an  inclination 
to  inquire  more  dispassionately  into  his  case,  they 
had  had  an  interview  with  the  minister,  in  his  bed, 
so  late  as  eight  o’clock  that  morning.  The  result  of 
a  searching  inquiry  (in  which  they,  who  had  known 
the  poor  fellow  from  his  childhood,  did  other  good 
service,  besides  bringing  it  about)  was,  that  between 
eleven  and  twelve  o’clock,  a  free  pardon  to  Barnaby 
Pudge  was  made  out  and  signed,  and  intrusted  to  a 
horse-soldier  for  instant  conveyance  to  the  place  of 
execution.  This  courier  reached  the  spot  just  as  the 
cart  appeared  in  sight ;  and  Barnaby  being  carried 
back  to  jail,  Mr.  Haredale,  assured  that  all  was  safe, 
had  gone  straight  from  Bloomsbury  Square  to  the 
Golden  Key,  leaving  to  Gabriel  the  grateful  task  of 
bringing  him  home  in  triumph. 

“  I  needn’t  say,”  observed  the  lock-smith,  when  he 
had  shaken  hands  with  all  the  males  in  the  house, 
and  hugged  all  the  females,  five-and-forty  times,  at 
least,  “  that,  except  among  ourselves,  I  didn’t  want 
to  make  a  triumph  of  it.  But,  directly  we  got  into 
the  street  we  were  known,  and  this  hubbub  began. 
Of  the  two,”  he  added,  as  he  wiped  his  crimson  face, 
“and  after  experience  of  both,  I  think  I’d  rather  be 
taken  out  of  my  house  by  a  crowd  of  enemies,  than 
escorted  home  by  a  mob  of  friends!” 


254 


BABNABY  BUDGE. 


It  was  plain  enough,  however,  that  this  was  mere 
talk  on  Gabriel’s  part,  and  that  the  whole  proceeding 
afforded  him  the  keenest  delight ;  for  the  people  con¬ 
tinuing  to  make  a  great  noise  without,  and  to  cheer 
as  if  their  voices  were  in  the  freshest  order,  and  good 
for  a  fortnight,  he  sent  up  stairs  for  Grip  (who  had 
come  home  at  his  master’s  hack,  and  had  acknowl¬ 
edged  the  favors  of  the  multitude  by  drawing  blood 
from  every  huger  that  came  within  his  reach),  and 
with  the  bird  upon  his  arm  presented  himself  at  the 
first-floor  window,  and  waved  his  hat  again  until  it 
dangled  by  a  shred,  between  his  huger  and  thumb. 
This  demonstration  having  been  received  with  ap¬ 
propriate  shouts,  and  silence  being  in  some  degree 
restored,  he  thanked  them  for  their  sympathy ;  and 
taking  the  liberty  to  inform  them  that  there  was  a 
sick  person  in  the  house,  proposed  that  they  should 
give  three  cheers  for  King  George,  three  more  for 
Old  England,  and  three  more  for  nothing  particular, 
as  a  closing  ceremony.  The  crowd  assenting,  sub¬ 
stituted  Gabriel  Varden  for  the  nothing  particular ; 
-and  giving  him  one  over,  for  good  measure,  dispersed 
in  high  good  humor. 

What  congratulations  were  exchanged  among  the 
inmates  of  the  Golden  Key,  when  they  were  left 
alone;  what  an  overflowing  of  joy  and  happiness 
there  was  among  them;  how  incapable  it  was  of 
expression  in  Barnaby’s  own  person;  and  how  he 
went  wildly  from  one  to  another,  until  he  became 
so  far  trauquilized  as  to  stretch  himself  on  the 
grouud  beside  his  mother’s  couch  and  fall  into  a 
deep  sleep ;  are  matters  that  need  not  be  told.  And 
it  is  well  they  happened  to  be  of  this  class,  for  they 
would  be  very  hard  to  tell,  were  their  narration  ever 
so  indispensable. 

Before  leaving  this  bright  picture,  it  may  be  well 
to  glance  at  a  dark  and  very  different  one  which  was 
presented,  to  only  a  few  eyes,  that  same  night. 

The  scene  was  a  church-yard ;  the  time,  midnight ; 
the  persons,  Edward  Chester,  a  clergyman,  a  grave¬ 
digger,  and  the  four  bearers  of  a  homely  coffin.  They 
stood  about  a  grave  which  had  been  newly  dug,  and 
one  of  the  bearers  held  up  a  dim  lantern — the  only 
light  there — which  shed  its  feeble  ray  upon  the  book 
of  prayer.  He  placed  it  for  a  moment  on  the  coffin, 
when  he  and  his  companions  were  about,  to  lower  it 
down.  There  was  no  inscription  on  the  lid. 

The  mould  fell  solemnly  upon  the  last  house  of  this 
nameless  man ;  and  the  rattling  dust  left  a  dismal 
echo  even  in  the  accustomed  ears  of  those  who  had 
borne  it  to  its  resting-place.  The  grave  was  filled 
in  to  the  top,  and  trodden  down.  They  all  left  the 
spot  together. 

“You  never  saw  him,  living?”  asked  the  clergy¬ 
man,  of  Edward. 

“  Often,  years  ago ;  not  knowing  him  for  my 
brother.” 

“  Never  since  ?” 

“  Never.  Yesterday,  he  steadily  refused  to  see  me. 
It  was  urged  upon  him,  many  times,  at  my  desire.” 

“Still  he  refused?  That  was  hardened  and  un¬ 
natural.” 

“  Do  you  think  so  ?” 

“  I  infer  that  you  do  not  ?” 

“  You  are  right.  We  hear  the  world  wonder,  ev¬ 
ery  day,  at  monsters  of  ingratitude.  Did  it  never  oc¬ 


cur  to  you  that  it  often  looks  for  monsters  of  affec¬ 
tion,  as  though  they  were  things  of  course  ?” 

They  had  reached  the  gate  by  this  time,  and  bid¬ 
ding  each  other  good-night,  departed  on  their  sep¬ 
arate  ways. 


CHAPTER  LXXX. 

THAT  afternoon,  when  he  had  slept  off  his  fatigue ; 

had  shaved,  and  washed,  and  dressed,  and  fresh¬ 
ened  himself  from  top  to  toe ;  when  he  had  dined, 
comforted  himself  with  a  pipe,  an  extra  Toby,  a  nap 
in  the  great  arm-chair,  and  a  quiet  chat  with  Mrs. 
Varden  on  every  thing  that  had  happened,  was  hap¬ 
pening,  or  about  to  happen,  within  the  sphere  of 
their  domestic  concern ;  the  lock-smith  sat  himself 
down  at  the  tea-table  in  the  little  back  parlor ;  the 
rosiest  coziest,  merriest,  heartiest,  best  contented  old 
buck  in  Great  Britain,  or  out  of  it. 

There  he  sat,  with  his  beaming  eye  on  Mrs.  V.,  and 
his  shining  face  suffused  with  gladness,  and  his  ca¬ 
pacious  waistcoat  smiling  in  every  wrinkle,  aud  his 
jovial  humor  peeping  from  under  the  table  in  the 
very  plumpness  of  his  legs  ;  a  sight  to  turn  the  vin¬ 
egar  of  misanthropy  into  purest  milk  of  human  kind¬ 
ness.  There  he  sat,  watching  his  wife  as  she  deco¬ 
rated  the  room  with  flowers  for  the  greater  honor  of 
Dolly  and  Joseph  Willet,  who  had  gone  out  walk¬ 
ing,  and  for  whom  the  tea-kettle  had  been  singing 
gayly  on  the  hob  full  twenty  minutes,  chirping  as 
never  kettle  chirped  before ;  for  whom  the  best  serv¬ 
ice  of  real  undoubted  china,  patterned  with  divers 
round-faced  mandarins  holding  up  broad  umbrellas, 
was  now  displayed  in  all  its  glory ;  to  tempt  whose 
appetites  a  clear,  transparent,  juicy  ham,  garnished 
with  cool  green  lettuce-leaves  and  fragrant  cucum¬ 
ber,  reposed  upon  a  shady  table,  covered  with  a  snow- 
white  cloth;  for  whose  delight,  preserves  and  jams, 
crisp  cakes  and  other  pastry,  short  to  eat,  with  cun¬ 
ning  twists,  and  cottage  loaves,  and  rolls  of  bread 
both  white  and  brown,  were  all  set  forth  in  rich  pro¬ 
fusion;  in  whose  youth  Mrs.  V.  herself  had  grown 
quite  young,  and  stood  there  in  a  gown  of  red  aud 
white ;  symmetrical  in  figure,  buxom  in  bodice,  rud¬ 
dy  in  cheek  and  lip,  faultless  in  ankle,  laughing  in 
face  and  mood,  in  all  respects  delicious  to  behold — 
there  sat  the  lock-smith  among  all  and  every  these 
delights,  the  sun  that  shone  upon  them  all ;  the  cen¬ 
tre  of  the  system  ;  the  source  of  light,  heat,  life,  and 
frank  enjoyment  in  the  bright  household  world. 

And  when  had  Dolly  ever  been  the  Dolly  of  that 
afternoon?  To  see  how  she  came  in,  arm  in  arm, 
with  Joe ;  and  how  she  made  an  effort  not  to  blush 
or  seem  at  all  confused ;  and  how  she  made  believe 
she  didn’t  care  to  sit  on  his  side  of  the  table ;  and 
how  she  coaxed  the  lock-smith  in  a  whisper  not  to 
joke ;  and.  how  her  color  came  and  went  in  a  little 
restless  flutter  of  happiness,  which  made  her  do  ev¬ 
ery  thing  wrong ;  and  yet  so  charmingly  wrong  that 
it  was  better  than  right ! — why,  the  lock-smith  could 
have  looked  on  at  this  (as  he  mentioned  to  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den  when  they  retired  for  the  night)  for  four  and 
twenty  hours  at  a  stretch,  and  never  wished  it  done. 

The  recollections,  too,  with  which  they  made  mer¬ 
ry  over  that  long  protracted  tea!  The  glee  with 


MIGGS  COMES  BACK. 


255 


which  the  lock-smith  asked  Joe  if  he  remembered 
that  stormy  night  at  the  Maypole  when  he  first  ask¬ 
ed  after  Dolly — the  laugh  they  all  had,  about  that 
night  when  she  was  going  out  to  the  party  in  the 
sedan-chair — the  unmerciful  manner  in  which  they 
rallied  Mrs.  Varden  about  putting  those  flowers  out¬ 
side  that  very  window — the  difficulty  Mrs.  Varden 
found  in  joining  the  laugh  against  herself,  at  first, 
and  the  extraordinary  perception  she  had  of  the  joke 
when  she  overcame  it — the  confidential  statements 
of  Joe  concerning  the  precise  day  and  hour  when  he 
was  first  conscious  of  being  fond  of  Dolly,  and  Dol¬ 
ly’s  blushing  admissions,  lialf  volunteered  and  half 
extorted,  as  to  the  time  from  w  hich  she  dated  the 
discovery  that  she  “  didn’t  mind  ”  Joe — here  was  an 
exhaustless  fund  of  mirth  and  conversation  ! 

Then,  there  was  a  great  deal  to  be  said  regard¬ 
ing  Mrs.  Varden’s  doubts,  and  motherly  alarms,  and 
shrewd  suspicious ;  and  it  appeared  that  from  Mrs. 
Varden’s  penetration  and  extreme  sagacity  nothing 
had  ever  been  hidden.  She  had  known  it  all  along. 
She  had  seen  it  from  the  first.  She  had  always  pre¬ 
dicted  it.  She  had  been  aware  of  it  before  the  prin¬ 
cipals.  She  had  said  within  herself  (for  she  remem¬ 
bered  the  exact  words) 11  that  young  Willet  is  certain¬ 
ly  looking  after  our  Dolly,  and  I  must  look  after 
him.”  Accordingly,  she  had  looked  after  him,  and 
had  observed  many  little  circumstances  (all  of  which 
she  named)  so  exceedingly  minute  that  nobody  else 
could  make  any  thing  out  of  them  even  now ;  and 
had,  it  seemed  from  first  to  last,  displayed  the  most 
unbounded  tact  and  most  consummate  generalship. 

Of  course  the  night  when  Joe  would  ride  homeward 
by  the  side  of  the  chaise,  and  when  Mrs.  Varden  would 
insist  upon  his  going  back  again,  was  not  forgotten — 
nor  the  night  when  Dolly  fainted  on  his  name  being 
mentioned — nor  the  times  upon  times  when  Mrs. 
Varden,  ever  watchful  aud  prudent,  had  found  her 
pining  in  her  own  chamber.  In  short,  nothing  was 
forgotten  ;  and  every  thing  by  some  means  or  other 
brought  them  back  to  the  conclusion,  that  that  was 
the  happiest  hour  in  all  their  lives;  consequently, 
that  every  thing  must  have  occurred  for  the  best, 
and  nothing  could  be  suggested  which  would  have 
made  it  better. 

While  they  were  in  the  full  glow  of  such  discourse 
as  this,  there  came  a  startling  knock  at  the  door, 
opening  from  the  street  into  the  workshop,  which 
had  been  kept  closed  all  day  that  the  house  might 
be  more  quiet.  Joe,  as  in  duty  bound,  would  hear 
of  nobody  but  himself  going  to  open  it ;  aud  accord¬ 
ingly  left  the  room  for  that  purpose. 

It  would  have  been  odd  enough,  certainly,  if  Joe 
had  forgotten  the  way  to  this  door ;  and  even  if  he 
had,  as  it  was  a  pretty  large  one  and  stood  straight 
before  him,  he  could  not  easily  have  missed  it.  But 
Dolly,  perhaps  because  she  was  in  the  flutter  of  spirits 
before  mentioned,  or  perhaps  because  she  thought  he 
would  not  be  able  to  open  it  with  bis  one  arm — she 
could  have  no  other  reason — hurried  out  after  him  ; 
and  they  stopped  so  long  in  the  passage — no  doubt 
owing  to  Joe’s  entreaties  that  she  would  not  expose 
herself  to  the  draught  of  July  air  which  must  infal¬ 
libly  come  rushing  in  on  this  same  door  beiug  opened 
— that  the  knock  was  repeated,  in  a  yet  more  start¬ 
ling  manner  than  before. 


“  Is  any  body  going  to  open  that  door  ?”  cried  the 
lock-smith.  “  Or  shall  I  come  ?” 

Upon  that,  Dolly  went  running  back  into  the  par¬ 
lor,  all  dimples  and  blushes  ;  and  Joe  opened  it  with 
a  mighty  noise,  and  other  superfluous  demonstrations 
of  being  in  a  violent  hurry. 

“  Well,”  said  the  lock-smith,  when  he  re-appeared  : 
“  what  is  it  ?  eh  Joe  ?  what  are  you  laughing  at  ?” 

“  Nothing  sir.  It’s  coming  in.” 

“  Who’s  coming  in  ?  what’s  coming  in?”  Mrs.  Var¬ 
den,  as  much  at  a  loss  as  her  husband,  could  only 
shake  her  head  in  answer  to  his  inquiring  look :  so, 
the  lock-smith  wheeled  his  chair  round  to  command 
a  better  view  of  the  room  door,  and  stared  at  it  with 
his  eyes  wide  open,  and  a  mingled  expression  of  cu¬ 
riosity  and  wonder  shining  in  his  jolly  face. 

Instead  of  some  person  or  persons  straightway  ap¬ 
pearing,  divers  remarkable  sounds  were  heard,  first 
in  the  workshop  and  afterward  in  the  little  dark  pas¬ 
sage  between  it  and  the  parlor,  as  though  some  un¬ 
wieldy  chest  or  heavy  piece  of  furniture  were  being 
brought  in,  by  an  amount  of  human  strength  inade¬ 
quate  to  the  task.  At  length  after  much  struggling 
and  bumping,  and  bruising  of  the  wall  on  both  sides, 
the  door  was  forced  open  as  by  a  battering-ram  ;  and 
the  lock-smith,  steadily  regarding  what  appeared  be¬ 
yond,  smote  his  thigh,  elevated  his  eyebrows,  opened 
his  mouth,  and  cried  in  a  loud  voice  expressive  of  the 
utmost  consternation : 

“  Damme,  if  it  an’t  Miggs  come  back !” 

The  young  damsel  whom  he  named  no  sooner 
heard  these  words,  than  deserting  a  small  boy  and 
a  very  large  box  by  which  she  was  accompanied, 
and  advancing  with  such  precipitation  that  her 
bonnet  flew  off  her  head,  burst  into  the  room, 
clasped  her  hands  (in  which  she  held  a  pair  of  pat¬ 
tens,  one  in  each),  raised  her  eyes  devotedly  to  the 
ceiling,  and  shed  a  flood  of  tears. 

“  The  old  story  !”  cried  the  lock-smith,  looking  at 
her  in  inexpressible  desperation.  “  She  was  born  to 
be  a  damper,  this  young  woman !  nothing  can  pre¬ 
vent  it !” 

“  Ho  master,  ho  mim !”  cried  Miggs,  u  can  I  con¬ 
strain  my  feelings  in  these  here  once  agin  united 
moments !  Ho,  Mr.  Warsen,  here’s  blessedness  among 
relations,  sir !  Here’s  forgivenesses  of  injuries,  here’s 
amicablenesses !” 

The  lock-smith  looked  from  his  wife  to  Dolly,  and 
from  Dolly  to  Joe,  and  from  Joe  to  Miggs,  with  his 
eyebrows  still  elevated  aud  his  mouth  still  open. 
When  his  eyes  got  back  to  Miggs,  they  rested  on 
her;  fascinated. 

“  To  think,”  cried  Miggs,  with  hysterical  joy,  u  that 
Mr.  Joe,  and  dear  Miss  Dolly,  has  raly  come  together 
after  all  as  has  been  said  and  done  contrairy!  To 
see  them  two  a-settin’  along  with  him  and  her,  so 
pleasant  and  in  all  respects  so  affable  and  mild ;  and 
me  not  knowing  of  it,  and  not  being  in  the  ways  to 
make  no  preparations  for  their  teas.  Ho  what  a 
cutting  thing  it  is,  and  yet  what  sweet  sensations  is 
awoke  within  me !” 

Either  in  clasping  her  hands  again,  or  in  an  ecsta¬ 
sy  of  pious  joy,  Miss  Miggs  clinked  her  pattens  after 
the  manner  of  a  pair  of  cymbals,  at  this  juncture ; 
aud  then  resumed,  in  the  softest  accents  : 

“Aud  did  my  missis  think — ho  goodness,  did  she 


256 


BAENABY  BUDGE. 


think — as  her  own  Miggs,  which  supported  her  un¬ 
der  so  many  trials,  and  understood  her  natur7  when 
them  as  intended  well  hut  acted  rough,  went  so  deep 
into  her  feelings — did  she  think  as  her  own  Miggs 
would  ever  leave  her?  Did  she  think  as  Miggs, 
though  she  was  but  a  servant,  and  kuowed  that  serv¬ 
itudes  was  no  inheritances,  would  forgit  that  she 
was  the  humble  instruments  as  always  made  it  com¬ 
fortable  between  them  two  when  they  fell  out,  and 
always  told  master  of  the  meekness  and  forgiveness 
of  her  blessed  dispositions !  Did  she  think  as  Miggs 
had  no  attachments !  Did  she  think  that  wages  was 
her  only  object  !” 

To  none  of  these  interrogatories,  whereof  every 
one  was  more  pathetically  delivered  than  the  last, 
did  Mrs.  Varden  answer  one  word :  but  Miggs,  not 
at  all  abashed  by  this  circumstance,  turned  to  the 
small  boy  in  attendance — her  eldest  nephew — son 
of  her  own  married  sister — bom  in  Golden  Lion 
Court,  number  twenty-sivin,  and  bred  in  the  very 
shadow  of  the  second  bell-handle  on  the  right-hand 
door-post — and  with  a  plentiful  use  of  her  pocket- 
handkerchief,  addressed  herself  to  him :  requesting 
that  on  his  return  home  he  would  console  his  parents 
for  the  loss  of  her,  his  aunt,  by  delivering  to  them  a 
faithful  statement  of  his  having  left  her  in  the  bosom 
of  that  family,  with  which,  as  his  aforesaid  parents 
well  knew,  her  best  affections  were  incorporated; 
that  he  would  remind  them  that  nothing  less  than 
her  imperious  sense  of  duty,  and  devoted  attach¬ 
ment  to  her  old  master  and  missis,  likewise  Miss 
Dolly,  and  young  Mr.  Joe,  should  ever  have  induced 
her  to  decline  that  pressing  invitation  which  they, 
his  parents,  had,  as  he  could  testify,  given  her,  to 
lodge  and  board  with  them,  free  of  all  cost  and 
charge,  for  evermore ;  lastly,  that  he  would  help 
her  with  her  box  up  stairs,  and  then  repair  straight 
home,  bearing  her  blessing  and  her  strong  injunc¬ 
tions  to  mingle  in  his  prayers  a  supplication  that  he 
might  in  course  of  time  grow  up  a  lock-smith,  or  a 
Mr.  Joe,  and  have  Mrs.  Yardens  and  Miss  Dollys  for 
his  relations  and  friends. 

Having  brought  this  admonition  to  an  end — upon 
which,  to  say  the  truth,  the  young  gentleman  for 
whose  benefit  it  was  designed,  bestowed  little  or  no 
heed,  having  to  all  appearance  his  faculties  absorbed 
iu  the  contemplation  of  the  sweetmeats — Miss  Miggs 
signified  to  the  company  in  general  that  they  were 
not  to  be  uneasy,  for  she  would  soon  return ;  and, 
with  her  nephew’s  aid,  prepared  to  bear  her  ward¬ 
robe  up  the  staircase. 

“  My  dear,”  said  the  lock-smith  to  his  wife.  “  Do 
you  desire  this  ?” 

u  I  desire  it !”  she  answered.  u  I  am  astonished — 
I  am  amazed — at  her  audacity.  Let  her  leave  the 
house  this  moment.” 

Miggs,  hearing  this,  let  her  end  of  the  box  fall 
heavily  to  the  floor,  gave  a  very  loud  sniff,  crossed 
her  arms,  screwed  down  the  corners  of  her  mouth, 
and  cried,  in  an  ascending  scale,  u Ho,  good  gracious!” 
three  distinct  times. 

“You  hear  what  your  mistress  says,  my  love,” 
remarked  the  lock-smith.  “  You  had  better  go,  I 
think.  Stay ;  take  this  with  you,  for  the  sake  of 
old  service.” 

Miss  Miggs  clutched  the  bank-note  he  took  from 


his  pocket-book  and  held  out  to  her;  deposited  it  in 
a  small,  red  leather  purse ;  put  the  purse  in  her  pock¬ 
et  (displaying,  as  she  did  so,  a  considerable  portion 
of  some  under  garment,  made  of  flannel,  and  more 
black  cotton  stocking  than  is  commonly  seen  in 
public) ;  and,  tossing  her  head,  as  she  looked  at  Mrs. 
Varden,  repeated — 

“  Ho,  good  gracious !” 

“  I  think  you  said  that  once  before,  my  dear,”  ob¬ 
served  the  lock-smith. 

“  Times  is  changed,  is  they,  mim !”  cried  Miggs, 
bridling ;  u  you  can  spare  me  now,  can  you  t  You  can 
keep  ’em  down  without  me?  You’re  not  in  wants 
of  any  one  to  scold,  or  throw  the  blame  upon,  no 
longer,  an’t  you,  mim?  I’m  glad  to  find  you’ve 
grown  so  independent.  I  wish  you  joy,  I’m  sure !” 

With  that  she  dropped  a  courtesy,  and  keeping  her 
head  erect,  her  ear  toward  Mrs.  Varden,  and  her  eye 
on  the  rest  of  the  company,  as  she  alluded  to  them 
in  her  remarks,  proceeded : 

“  I’m  quite  delighted,  I’m  sure,  to  find  sich  inde¬ 
pendency,  feeling  sorry  though,  at  the  same  time, 
mim,  that  you  should  have  been  forced  into  submis¬ 
sions  when  you  couldn’t  help  yourself — be,  he,  he! 
It  must  be  great  vexations,  ’specially  considering 
how  ill  you  always  spoke  of  Mr.  Joe — to  have  him 
for  a  son-in-law  at  last ;  and  I  wonder  Miss  Dollv 
can  put  up  with  him,  either,  after  being  off  and  on 
for  so  many  years  with  a  coach-maker.  But  I  have 
heerd  say,  that  the  coach-maker  thought  twice  about 
it — he,  he,  he ! — and  that  he  told  a  young  man  as 
was  a  frind  of  his,  that  he  hoped  he  knowed  better 
than  to  be  drawed  into  that ;  though  she  and  all  the 
family  did  pull  uncommon  strong!” 

Here  she  paused  for  a  reply,  and  receiving  none, 
went  on  as  before. 

“I  have  heerd  say,  mim,  that  the  illnesses  of  some 
ladies  was  all  pretensions,  and  that  they  could  faint 
away,  stone  dead,  whenever  they  had  the  inclina¬ 
tions  so  to  do.  Of  course  I  never  see  sich  cases  with 
my  own  eyes — ho  no!  He,  he,  he!  Nor  master 
neither  — ho  no!  He,  he,  he!  I  have  heerd  the 
neighbors  make  remark  as  some  one  as  they  was  ac¬ 
quainted  w  ith,  was  a  poor  good-natur’d  mean-spirit¬ 
ed  creetur,  as  went  out  fishing  for  a  wife  one  day, 
and  caught  a  Tartar.  Of  course  I  never  to  my 
knowledge  see  the  poor  person  himself.  Nor  did 
you  neither,  mim — no  no.  I  wonder  who  it  can  be 
— don’t  you,  mim  ?  No  doubt  you  do,  mim.  Ho  yes. 
He,  he,  he  !” 

Again  Miggs  paused  for  a  reply ;  and  none  being- 
offered,  was  so  oppressed  with  teeming  spite  and 
spleen,  that  she  seemed  like  to  burst. 

“  I’m  glad  Miss  Dolly  can  laugh,”  cried  Miggs 
with  a  feeble  titter.  “  I  like  to  see  folks  a-laughiug 
— so  do  you,  mim,  don’t  you  ?  You  was  always  glad 
to  see  people  in  spirits,  wasn’t  you,  mim?  And  you 
always  did  your  best  to  keep  ’em  cheerful,  didn’t 
you,  mim?  Though  there  an’t  such  a  great  deal  to 
*  laugh  at  now  either ;  is  there,  mim  ?  It  an’t  so 
much  of  a  catch,  after  looking  out  sharp  ever  since 
she  was  a  little  chit,  and  costing  such  a  deal  in  dress 
and  show,  to  get  a  poor,  common  soldier,  with  one 
arm,  is  it,  mim  ?  He,  he  !  I  wouldn’t  have  a  hus¬ 
band  with  one  arm,  anyways.  I  would  have  two 
arms.  I  would  have  two  arms,  if  it  was  me,  though 


MR.  HARED  ALE’ S  SOLITUDE. 


257 


instead  of  hands  they’d  only  got  hooks  at  the  end, 
like  our  dustman !” 

Miss  Miggs  was  about  to  add,  and  had,  indeed, 
begun  to  add,  that,  taking  them  in  the  abstract, 
dustmen  were  far  more  eligible  matches  than  sol¬ 
diers,  though,  to  be  sure,  when  people  were  past 
choosiug  they  must  take  the  best  they  could  get, 
and  think  themselves  well  off  too ;  but  her  vexation 
and  chagrin  being  of  that  internally  bitter  sort  which 
finds  no  relief  in  words,  and  is  aggravated  to  mad¬ 
ness  by  want  of  contradiction,  she  could  hold  out  no 
longer,  and  burst  into  a  storm  of  sobs  and  tears. 

In  this  extremity  she  fell  on  the  unlucky  nephew, 
tooth  and  nail,  and  plucking  a  handful  of  hair  from 
his  head,  demanded  to  know  how  long  she  was  to 
stand  there  to  be  insulted,  and  whether  or  no  he 
meant  to  help  her  to  carry  out  the  box  again,  and 
if  he  took  a  pleasure  in  hearing  his  family  reviled ; 
with  other  inquiries  of  that  nature ;  at  which  dis¬ 
grace  and  provocation,  the  small  boy,  who  had  been 
all  this  time  gradually  lashed  into  rebellion  by  the 
sight  of  unattainable  pastry,  walked  off  indignant, 
leaving  his  aunt  and  the  box  to  follow  at  their  lei¬ 
sure.  Somehow  or  other,  by  dint  of  pushing  and 
pulling,  they  did  attain  the  street  at  last ;  where 
Miss  Miggs,  all  blowzed  with  the  exertion  of  getting 
there,  and  with  her  sobs  and  tears,  sat  down  upon 
her  property  to  rest  and  grieve,  until  she  could  en¬ 
snare  some  other  youth  to  help  her  home. 

“  It’s  a  thing  to  laugh  at,  Martha,  not  to  care  for,” 
whispered  the  lock-smith,  as  he  followed  his  wife  to 
the  window,  and  good-humoredly  dried  her  eyes. 
“  What  does  it  matter  ?  You  had  seen  your  fault 
before.  Come!  Bring  up  Toby  again,  my  dear; 
Dolly  shall  sing  us  a  song ;  and  we’ll  be  all  the  mer¬ 
rier  for  this  interruption !” 


CHAPTER  LXXXI. 

ANOTHER  month  had  passed,  and  the  end  of 
August  had  nearly  come,  when  Mr.  Haredale 
stood  alone  in  the  mail-coach  office  at  Bristol.  Al¬ 
though  but  a  few  weeks  had  intervened  since  his 
conversation  with  Edward  Chester  and  his  niece,  in 
the  lock-smith’s  house,  and  he  had  made  no  change, 
in  the  mean  time,  in  his  accustomed  style  of  dress, 
his  appearance  was  greatly  altered.  He  looked  much 
older,  and  more  care-worn.  Agitation  and  anxiety 
of  mind  scattered  wrinkles  and  gray  hairs  with  no 
unsparing  hand ;  but  deeper  traces  follow  on  the  si¬ 
lent  uprooting  of  old  habits,  and  severing  of  dear, 
familiar  ties.  The  affections  may  not  be  so  easily 
wounded  as  the  passions,  but  their  hurts  are  deeper, 
and  more  lasting.  He  was  now  a  solitary  man,  and 
the  heart  within  him  was  dreary  and  lonesome. 

He  was  not  the  less  alone  for  having  spent  so  many 
years  in  seclusion  and  retirement.  This  was  no  bet¬ 
ter  preparation  than  a  round  of  social  cheerfulness : 
perhaps  it  even  increased  the  keenness  of  his  sensi¬ 
bility.  He  had  been  so  dependent  upon  her  for  com¬ 
panionship  and  love ;  she  had  come  to  be  so  much  a 
part  and  parcel  of  his  existence ;  they  had  had  so 
many  cares  and  thoughts  in  common,  which  no  one 
else  had  shared  ;  that  losing  her  was  beginning  life 

17 


anew,  and  being  required  to  summon  up  the  hope 
and  elasticity  of  youth,  amidst  the  doubts,  distrusts, 
and  weakened  energies  of  age. 

The  effort  he  had  made  to  part  from  her  with 
seeming  cheerfulness  and  hope — and  they  had  part¬ 
ed  only  yesterday  —  left  him  the  more  depressed. 
With  these  feelings,  he  was  about  to  revisit  London 
for  the  last  time,  and  look  once  more  upon  the  walls 
of  their  old  home,  before  turning  his  back  upon  it, 
forever. 

The  journey  was  a  very  different  one,  in  those 
days,  from  what  the  present  generation  find  it ;  but 
it  came  to  an  end,  as  the  longest  journey  will,  and 
he  stood  again  in  the  streets  of  the  metropolis.  He 
]%y  at  the  inn  where  the  coach  stopped,  and  resolved, 
before  he  went  to  bed,  that  he  would  make  his  ar¬ 
rival  known  to  no  one;  would  spend  but  another 
night  in  London ;  and  would  spare  himself  the  pang 
of  parting,  even  with  the  honest  lock-smith. 

Such  conditions  of  the  mind  as  that  to  which  he 
was  a  prey  when  he  lay  down  to  rest,  are  favorable 
to  the  growth  of  disordered  fancies,  and  uneasy  vis¬ 
ions.  He  knew  this,  even  in  the  horror  with  which 
he  started  from  his  first  sleep,  and  threw  up  the  win¬ 
dow  to  dispel  it  by  the  presence  of  some  object,  be¬ 
yond  the  room,  which  had  not  been,  as  it  were,  the 
witness  of  his  dream.  But  it  was  not  a  new  terror 
of  the  night ;  it  had  been  present  to  him  before,  in 
many  shapes  ;  it  had  haunted  him  in  bygone  times, 
and  visited  his  pillow  again  and  again.  If  it  had 
been  but  an  ugly  object,  a  childish  spectre,  haunt¬ 
ing  his  sleep,  its  return,  in  its  old  form,  might  have 
awakened  a  momentary  sensation  of  fear,  which, 
almost  in  the  act  of  waking,  would  have  passed 
away.  This  disquiet,  however,  lingered  about  him, 
and  would  yield  to  nothing.  When  he  closed  his 
eyes  again,  he  felt  it  hovering  near;  as  he  slowly 
sunk  into  a  slumber,  he  was  conscious  of  its  gather¬ 
ing  strength  and  purpose,  and  gradually  assuming 
its  recent  shape ;  when  he  sprang  up  from  his  bed, 
the  same  phantom  Aranished  from  his  heated  brain, 
and  left  him  filled  with  a  dread  against  which  reason 
and  waking  thought  were  powerless. 

The  sun  was  up,  before  he  could  shake  it  off.  He 
rose  late,  but  not  refreshed,  and  remained  within 
doors  all  that  day.  He  had  a  fancy  for  paying  his 
last  visit  to  the  old  spot  in  the  evening,  for  he  had 
been  accustomed  to  walk  there  at  that  season,  and 
desired  to  see  it  under  the  aspect  that  was  most  fa¬ 
miliar  to  him.  At  such  an  hour  as  would  afford  him 
time  to  reach  it  a  little  before  sunset,  he  left  the  inn, 
and  turned  into  the  busy  street. 

He  had  not  gone  far,  and  was  thoughtfully  mak¬ 
ing  his  way  among  the  noisy  crowd,  when  he  felt  a 
hand  upon  his  shoulder,  and,  turning,  recognized  one 
of  the  waiters  from  the  inn,  who  begged  his  pardon, 
but  he  had  left  his  sword  behind  him. 

“  Why  have  you  brought  it  to  me  ?”  he  asked, 
stretching  out  his  hand,  and  yet  not  taking  it  from 
the  man,  but  looking  at  him  in  a  disturbed  and  agi¬ 
tated  manner. 

The  man  was  sorry  to  have  disobliged  him,  and 
would  carry  it  back  again.  The  gentleman  had 
said  that  he  was  going  a  little  way  into  the  country, 
and  that  he  might  not  return  until  late.  The  roads 
were  not  very  safe  for  single  travelers  after  dark ; 


258 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


and,  since  the  riots,  gentlemen  had  been  more  care¬ 
ful  than  ever,  not  to  trust  themselves  unarmed  in 
lonely  places.  “We  thought  you  were  a  stranger, 
sir,”  he  added,  “and  that  you  might  believe  our 
roads  to  he  better  than  they  are ;  but  perhaps  you 
know  them  well,  and  carry  fire-arms — ” 

He  took  the  sword,  and  putting  it  up  at  his  side, 
thanked  the  man,  and  resumed  his  walk. 

It  was  long  remembered  that  he  did  this  in  a  man¬ 
ner  so  strange,  and  with  such  a  trembling  hand, 
that  the  messenger  stood  looking  after  his  retreating 
figure,  doubtful  whether  he  ought  not  to  follow,  and 
watch  him.  It  was  long  remembered  that  he  had 
been  heard  pacing  his  bedroom  in  the  dead  of  the 
night ;  and  the  attendants  had  mentioned  to  eachi 
other  in  the  morning,  how  fevered  and  how  pale  he 
looked;  and  that  when  this  man  went  back  to  the 
inn,  he  told  a  fellow-servant  that  what  he  had  ob¬ 
served  in  this  short  interview  lay  very  heavy  on  his 
mind,  and  that  he  feared  the  gentleman  intended  to 
destroy  himself,  and  would  never  come  back  alive. 

With  a  half-consciousness  that  his  manner  had 
attracted  the  man’s  attention  (remembering  the  ex¬ 
pression  of  his  face  when  they  parted),  Mr.  Haredale 
quickened  his  steps,  and  arriving  at  a  stand  of  coach¬ 
es,  bargained  with  the  driver  of  the  best  to  carry 
him  so  far  on  his  road  as  the  point  where  the  footway 
struck  across  the  fields,  and  to  await  his  return  at  a 
house  of  entertainment  which  was  within  a  stone’s- 
throw  of  that  place.  Arriving  there  in  due  course, 
he  alighted  and  pursued  his  way  on  foot. 

He  passed  so  near  the  Maypole,  that  he  could  see 
its  smoke  rising  from  among  the  trees,  while  a  flock 
of  pigeons — some  of  its  old  inhabitants,  doubtless — 
sailed  gayly  home  to  roost,  between  him  and  the 
unclouded  sky.  “The  old  house  will  brighten  up 
now,”  he  said,  as  he  looked  toward  it,  “  and  there 
will  be  a  merry  fireside  beneath  its  ivied  roof.  It  is 
some  comfort  to  know  that  every  thing  will  not  be 
blighted  hereabouts.  I  shall  be  glad  to  have  one 
picture  of  life  and  cheerfulness  to  turn  to,  in  my 
mind !” 

He  resumed  his  walk,  and  bent  his  steps  toward 
the  Warren.  It  was  a  clear,  calm,  silent  evening,  with 
hardly  a  breath  of  wind  to  stir  the  leaves,  or  any 
sound  to  break  the  stillness  of  the  time,  but  drowsy 
sheep-bells  tinkling  in  the  distance,  and,  at  intervals, 
the  far-off  lowing  of  cattle,  or  bark  of  village  dogs. 
The  sky  was  radiant  with  the  softened  glory  of  sun¬ 
set  ;  and  on  the  earth,  and  in  the  air,  a  deep  repose 
prevailed.  At  such  au  hour,  he  arrived  at  the  desert¬ 
ed  mansion  which  had  been  his  home  so  long,  and 
looked  for  the  last  time  upon  its  blackened  walls. 

The  ashes  of  the  commonest  fire  are  melancholy 
things,  for  in  them  there  is  an  image  of  death  and 
ruin — of  something  that  has  been  bright,  and  is  but 
dull,  cold,  dreary  dust — with  which  our  nature  forces 
us  to  sympathize.  How  much  more  sad  the  crum¬ 
bled  embers  of  a  home :  the  casting  down  of  that 
great  altar,  where  the  worst  among  us  sometimes 
perform  the  worship  of  the  heart;  and  where  the 
best  have  offered  up  such  sacrifices,  and  done  such 
deeds  of  heroism,  as,  chronicled,  would  put  the  proud¬ 
est  temples  of  old  Time,  with  all  their  vaunting  an¬ 
nals,  to  the  blush ! 

He  roused  himself  from  a  long  train  of  meditation, 


and  walked  slowly  round  the  house.  It  was  by  this 
time  almost  dark. 

He  had  nearly  made  the  circuit  of  the  building, 
when  he  uttered  a  half-suppressed  exclamation,  start¬ 
ed,  and  stood  still.  Reclining,  in  an  easy  attitude, 
with  his  back  against  a  tree,  and  contemplating  the 
ruin  with  an  expression  of  pleasure — a  pleasure  so 
keen  that  it  overcame  his  habitual  indolence  and 
command  of  feature,  and  displayed  itself  utterly  free 
from  all  restraint  or  reserve — before  him,  on  his  own 
ground,  and  triumphing  then,  as  he  had  triumphed 
in  every  misfortune,  and  disappointment  of  his  life, 
stood  the  man  whose  presence,  of  all  mankind,  in  any 
place,  and  least  of  all  in  that,  he  could  the  least  en¬ 
dure.  t 

Although  his  blood  so  rose  against  this  man,  and 
his  wrath  so  stirred  within  him,  that  he  could  have 
struck  him  dead,  he  put  such  fierce  constraint  upon 
himself  that  he  passed  him  without  a  wrord  or  look. 
Yes,  and  he  would  have  gone  on,  and  not  turned, 
though  to  resist  the  Devil  who  poured  such  hot  temp¬ 
tation  in  his  brain,  required  an  effort  scarcely  to  be 
achieved,  if  this  man  had  not  himself  summoned  him 
to  stop ;  and  that,  with  au  assumed  compassion  in 
his  voice  which  drove  him  well-nigh  mad,  and  in  an 
instant  routed  all  the  self-command  it  had  been  an¬ 
guish — acute,  poignant  anguish — to  sustain. 

All  consideration,  reflection,  mercy,  forbearance; 
every  thing  by  which  a  goaded  man  can  curb  his 
rage  and  passion  ;  fled  from  him  as  he  turned  back. 
And  yet  he  said,  slowly  and  quite  calmly — far  more 
calmly  than  he  had  ever  spoken  to  him  before  : 

“  Why  have  you  called  to  me  ?” 

“To  remark,”  said  Sir  John  Chester,  with  his 
wonted  composure,  “  what  an  odd  chance  it  is,  that 
we  should  meet  here !” 

“  It  is  a  strange  chance.”'"' 

“  Strange  ?  The  most  remarkable  and  singular 
thing  in  the  world.  I  never  ride  in  the  evening  ;  I 
have  not  done  so  for  years.  The  whim  seized  me, 
quite  unaccountably,  in  the  middle  of  last  night — 
How  very  picturesque  this  is!”  He  pointed,  as  he 
spoke,  to  the  dismantled  house,  and  raised  his  glass 
to  his  eye. 

“  You  praise  your  own  work  very  freely.” 

Sir  John  let  fall  his  glass;  inclined  his  face  to¬ 
ward  him  with  an  air  of  the  most  courteous  inquiry : 
and  slightly  shook  his  head  as  though  he  were  re¬ 
marking  to  himself,  *“  I  fear  this  animal  is  going 
mad !” 

“  I  say  you  praise  your  own  work  very  freely,”  re¬ 
peated  Mr.  Haredale. 

“Work !”  echoed  Sir  John,  looking  sm  ilingly  round. 
“  Mine  ! — I  beg  your  pardon,  I  really  beg  your  par¬ 
don — ” 

“  Why,  you  see,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  those  walls. 
You  see  those  tottering  gables.  You  see  on  every 
side  where  fire  and  smoke  have  raged.  You  see  the 
destruction  that  has  been  wanton  here.  Do  you 
not  ?” 

“  My  good  friend,”  returned  the  knight,  gently 
checking  his  impatience  with  his  hand,  “of  course  I 
do.  I  see  every  thing  you  speak  of,  when  you  stand 
aside,  and  do  not  interpose  yourself  between  the  view 
and  me.  I  am  very  sorry  for  you.  If  I  had  not  had 
the  pleasure  to  meet  you  here,  I  think  I  should  have 


YOU  1*R .USE  YOUR  OWN  WORK  VERY  FREELY 


<  ft 


LIBRARV 


THE  DUEL  IN  THE  RUINS. 


259 


written  to  tell  you.so.  But  you  don’t  bear  it  as  well 
as  I  bad  expected — excuse  me — no,  you  don’t  indeed. 

He  pulled  out  his  snuff-box,  and  addressing  him 
with  the  superior  air  of  a  man  who,  by  reason  of  his 
higher  nature,  has  a  right  to  read  a  moral  lesson  to 
another,  continued : 

“  For  you  are  a  philosopher,  you  know — one  of  that 
stern  and  rigid  school  who  are  far  above  the  weak¬ 
nesses  of  mankind  in  general.  You  are  removed,  a 
long  way,  frQm  the  frailties  of  the  crowd.  You  con¬ 
template  them  from  a  height,  and  rail  at  them  with 
a  most  impressive  bitterness.  I  have  heard  you.” 

— “And  shall  again,”  said  Mr.  Haredale. 

“  Thank  you,”  returned  the  other.  “  Shall  we 
walk  as  we  talk  ?  The  damp  falls  rather  heavily. 
Well — as  you  please.  But  I  grieve  to  say  that  I  can 
spare  you  only  a  very  few  moments.” 

“I  would,”  said  Mr.  Haredale,  “  3^1  had  spared 
me  none.  I  would,  with  all  my  soul,  you  had  been 
in  Paradise  (if  such  a  monstrous  lie  could  be  enacted), 
rather  than  here  to-night.” 

“  Nay,”  returned  the  other — “  really — you  do  your¬ 
self  injustice.  You  are  a  rough  companion,  but  I 
would  not  go  so  far  to  avoid  you.” 

“  Listen  to  me,”  said  Mr.  Haredale.  “  Listen  to 
me.” 

“While  you  rail  ?”  inquired  Sir  John. 

“While  I  deliver  your  infamy.  You  urged  and 
stimulated  to  do  your  work  a  fit  agent,  but  one  who 
in  his  nature — in  the  very  essence  of  his  being — is  a 
traitor,  and  who  has  been  false  to  you  (despite  the 
sympathy  you  two  should  have  together)  as  he  has 
been  to  all  others.  With  hints,  and  looks,  and  craf¬ 
ty  words,  which  told  again  are  nothing,  you  set  on 
Gashford  to  this  work — this  work  before  us  now. 
With  these  same  hints,  and  looks,  and  crafty  words, 
which  told  again  are  nothing,  you  urged  him  on  to 
gratify  the  deadly  hate  he  owes  me— I  have  earned 
it,  I  thank  Heaven — by  the  abduction  and  dishonor 
of  my  niece.  You  did.  I  see  denial  in  your  looks,” 
he  cried,  abruptly  pointing  in  his  face,  and  stepping 
back,  “  and  denial  is  a  lie !” 

He  had  his  hand  upon  his  sword;  but  the  knight, 
with  a  contemptuous  smile,  replied  to  him  as  coldly 
as  before. 

“  You  will  take  notice,  sir — if  you  can  discriminate 
sufficiently — that  I  have  taken  the  trouble  to  deny 
nothing.  Your  discernment  is  hardly  fine  enough  for 
the  perusal  of  faces,  not  of  a  kind  as  coarse  as  your 
speech  ;  nor  has  it  ever  been,  that  I  remember;  or, 
in  one  face  that  I  could  name,  you  would  have  read 
indifference,  not  to  say  disgust,  somewhat  sooner 
than  you  did.  I  speak  of  a  long  time  ago — but  you 
understand  me.” 

“  Disguise  it  as  you  will,  you  mean  denial.  Denial 
explicit  or  reserved,  expressed  or  left  to  be  inferred, 
is  still  a  lie.  You  say  you  don’t  deny.  Do  you  ad¬ 
mit?” 

“Yon  yourself,”  returned  Sir  John,  suffering  the 
current  of  his  speech  to  flow  as  smoothly  as  if  it  had 
been  stemmed  by  no  one  word  of  interruption,  “  pub¬ 
licly  proclaimed  the  character  of  the  gentleman  in 
question  (I  think  it  was  in  Westminster  Hall)  in 
terms  which  relieve  me  from  the  necessity  of  making 
any  farther  allusion  to  him.  You  may  have  been 
warranted  ;  you  may  not  have  been  ;  I  can’t  say.  As¬ 


suming  the  gentleman  to  be  what  you  described,  and 
to  have  made  to  you  or  any  other  person  any  state¬ 
ments  that  may  have  happened  to  suggest  themselves 
to  him,  for  the  sake  of  his  own  security,  or  for  the 
sake  of  money,  or  for  his  own  amusement,  or  for  any 
other  consideration — I  have  nothing  to  say  of  him, 
except  that  his  extremely  degrading  situation  ap¬ 
pears  to  me  to  be  shared  with  his  employers.  You 
are  so  very  plain  yourself,  that  you  will  excuse  a  lit¬ 
tle  freedom  in  me,  I  am  sure.” 

“Attend  to  me  again,  Sir  John — but  once,”  cried 
Mr.  Haredale ;  “  in  your  every  look,  and  word,  and 
gesture,  you  tell  me  this  was  not  your  act.  I  tell 
you  that  it  was,  and  that  you  tampered  with  the 
man  I  speak  of,  and  with  your  wretched  son  (whom 
God  forgive!)  to  do  this  deed.  You  talk  of  degrada¬ 
tion  and  character.  You  told  me  once  that  you  had 
purchased  the  absence  of  the  poor  idiot  and  his 
mother,  when  (as  I  have  discovered  since,  and  then 
suspected)  you  had  gone  to  tempt  them,  and  had 
found  them  flown.  To  you  I  traced  the  insinuation 
that  I  alone  reaped  any  harvest  from  my  brother’s 
death  ;  and  all  the  foul  attacks  and  whispered  calum¬ 
nies  that  followed  in  its  train.  In  every  action  of 
my  life,  from  that  first  hope  which  you  converted 
into  grief  and  desolation,  you  have  stood,  like  an  ad¬ 
verse  fate,  between  me  and  peace.  In  all,  you  have 
ever  been  the  same  cold-blooded,  hollow,  false,  un¬ 
worthy  villain.  For  the  second  time,  and  for  the 
last,  I  cast  these  charges  in  your  teeth,  and  spurn 
you  from  me  as  I  would  a  faithless  dog !” 

With  that  he  raised  his  arm,  and  struck  him  on 
the  breast  so  that  he  staggered.  Sir  John,  the  in¬ 
stant  he  recovered,  drew  his  sword,  threw  away  the 
scabbard  and  his  hat,  and  running  on  his  adversary 
made  a  desperate  lunge  at  his  heart,  which,  but  that 
his  guard  was  quick  and  true,  would  have  stretched 
him  dead  upon  the  grass. 

In  the  act  of  striking  him,  the  torrent  of  his  op¬ 
ponent’s  rage  had  reached  a  stop.  He  parried  his 
rapid  thrusts,  without  returning  them,  and  called  to 
him,  with  a  frantic  kind  of  terror  in  his  face,  to  keep 
back. 

“Not  to-night!  not  to-night!”  he  cried.  “In 
God’s  name,  not  to-night !” 

Seeing  that  he  lowered  his  weapon,  and  that  he 
would  not  thrust  in  turn,  Sir  John  lowered  his. 

“Not  to-night!”  his  adversary  cried.  “  Be  -warn¬ 
ed  in  time !” 

“  You  told  me — it  must  have  been  in  a  sort  of  in¬ 
spiration — ’’said  Sir  John,  quite  deliberately,  though 
now  he  dropped  his  mask,  and  showed  his  hatred  in 
his  face,  “  that  this  was  the  last  time.  Be  assured 
it  is  !  Did  you  believe  our  last  meeting  was  forgot¬ 
ten  ?  Did  you  believe  that  your  every  -word  and 
look  was  not  to  be  accounted  for,  and  was  not  well 
remembered  ?  Do  you  believe  that  I  have  waited 
your  time,  or  you  mine  ?  What  kind  of  man  is  he 
who  entered,  with  all  his  sickening  cant  of  honesty 
and  truth,  into  a  bond  with  me  to  prevent  a  mar¬ 
riage  he  affected  to  dislike,  and  when  I  had  redeem¬ 
ed  my  part  to  the  spirit  and  the  letter,  skulked  from 
his,  and  brought  the  match  about  in  his  own  time, 
to  rid  himself  of  a  burden  he  had  grown  tired  of, 
and  cast  a  spurious  lustre  on  his  house  ?” 

“  I  have  acted,”  cried  Mr.  Haredale,  “  with  honor 


260 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


and  in  good  faith.  I  do  so  now.  Do  not  force  me 
to  renew  this  duel  to-night !” 

“You  said  my  ‘wretched’  son,  I  think?”  said  Sir 
John,  with  a  smile.  “Poor  fool!  The  dupe  of  such 
a  shallow  knave — trapped  into  marriage  by  such  an 
uncle  and  by  such  a  niece — he  well  deserves  your 
pity.  But  he  is  no  longer  a  son  of  mine :  you  are 
welcome  to  the  prize  your  craft  has  made,  sir.” 

“  Once  more,”  cried  his  opponent,  wildly  stamp¬ 
ing  on  the  ground,  “  although  you  tear  me  from  my 
better  angel,  I  implore  you  not  to  come  within  the 
reach  of  my  sword  to-night.  Oh!  why  were  you 
here  at  all !  Why  have  we  met !  To-morrow  would 
have  cast  us  far  apart  forever !” 

“  That  being  the  case,”  returned  Sir  John,  without 
the  least  emotion,  “  it  is  very  fortunate  we  have  met 
to-night.  Haredale,  I  have  always  despised  you,  as 
you  know,  but  I  have  given  you  credit  for  a  species 
of  brute  courage.  For  the  honor  of  my  judgment, 
which  I  had  thought  a  good  one,  I  am  sorry  to  find 
you  a  coward.” 

Not  another  word  was  spoken  on  either  side. 
They  crossed  swords,  though  it  was  now  quite  dusk, 
and  attacked  each  other  fiercely.  They  were  well 
matched,  and  each  was  thoroughly  skilled  in  the 
management  of  his  weapon. 

After  a  few  seconds  they  grew  hotter  and  more 
furious,  and  pressing  on  each  other  inflicted  and  re¬ 
ceived  several  slight  wounds.  It  was  directly  after 
receiving  one  of  these  in  his  arm,  that  Mr.  Haredale, 
making  a  keener  thrust  as  he  felt  the  warm  blood 
spirting  out,  plunged  his  sword  through  his  oppo¬ 
nent’s  body  to  the  hilt. 

Their  eyes  met,  and  were  on  each  other  as  he  drew 
it  out.  He  put  his  arm  about  the  dying  man,  who 
repulsed  him  feebly,  and  dropped  upon  the  turf. 
Raising  himself  upon  his  hands,  he  gazed  at  him  for 
an  instant,  with  scorn  and  hatred  in  his  look ;  hut, 
seeming  to  remember,  even  then,  that  this  expression 
would  distort  his  features  after  death,  he  tried  to 
smile,  and,  faintly  moving  his  right  hand,  as  if  to 
hide  his  bloody  linen  in  his  vest,  fell  back  dead — 
the  phantom  of  last  night. 


CHAPTER  THE  LAST. 

A  PARTING  glance  at  such  of  the  actors  in  this 
little  history  as  it  has  not,  in  the  course  of  its 
events^lismissed,  will  bring  it  to  an  end. 

Mr.  Haredale  fled  that  night.  Before  pursuit 
could  he  begun,  indeed  before  Sir  John  was  traced 
or  missed,  he  had  left  the  kingdom.  Repairing 
straight  to  a  religious  establishment,  known  through¬ 
out  Europe  for  the  rigor  and  severity  of  its  discipline, 
and  for  the  merciless  penitence  it  exacted  from  those 
who  sought  its  shelter  as  a  refuge  from  the  world, 
he  took  the  vows  which  thenceforth  shut  him  out 
from  nature  and  its  kind,  and  after  a  few  remorseful 
years  was  buried  in  its  gloomy  cloisters. 

Two  days  elapsed  before  the  body  of  Sir  John  was 
found.  As  soon  as  it  was  recognized  and  carried 
home,  the  faithful  valet,  true  to  his  master’s  creed, 
eloped  with  all  the  cash  and  movables  he  could  lay 
his  hands  on,  and  started  as  a  finished  gentleman 


upon  his  own  account.  In  this  career  he  met  with 
great  success,  and  would  certainly  have  married  an 
heiress  in  the  end,  but  for  an  unlucky  check  which 
led  to  his  premature  decease.  He  sank  under  a  con¬ 
tagious  disorder,  very  prevalent  at  that  time,  and 
vulgarly  termed  the  jail  fever. 

Lord  George  Gordon,  remaining  in  his  prison  in 
the  Tower  until  Monday  the  Fifth  of  February  in 
the  following  year,  was  on  that  day  solemnly  tried 
at  Westminster  for  High  Treason.  Of  this  crime 
he  was,  after  a  patient  investigation,  declared  Not 
Guilty ;  upon  the  ground  that  there  was  no  proof 
of  his  having  called  the  multitude  together  with  any 
traitorous  or  unlawful  intentions.  Yet  so  many  peo¬ 
ple  were  there,  still,  to  whom  those  riots  taught  no 
lesson  of  reproof  or  moderation,  that  a  public  sub-* 
scription  was  set  on  foot  in  Scotland  to  defray  the 
cost  of  his  defense. 

For  seven  years  afterward  he  remained,  at  the 
strong  intercession  of  his  friends,  comparatively 
quiet ;  saving  that  he,  every  now  and  then,  took  oc¬ 
casion  to  display  his  zeal  for  the  Protestant  faith  in 
some  extravagant  proceeding  which  was  the  delight 
of  its  enemies;  and  saving,  besides,  that  he  was 
formally  excommunicated  by  the  Archbishop  of  Can¬ 
terbury,  for  refusing  to  appear  as  a  witness  in  the 
Ecclesiastical  Court  when  cited  for  that  purpose. 
In  the  year  1788  he  was  stimulated  by  some  new  in¬ 
sanity  to  write  and  publish  an  injurious  pamphlet, 
reflecting  on  the  Queen  of  France,  in  very  violent 
terms.  Being  indicted  for  the  libel,  and  (after  va¬ 
rious  strange  demonstrations  in  court)  found  guilty, 
he  fled  into  Holland  in  place  of  appearing  to  receive 
sentence:  from  whence,  as  the  quiet  burgomasters 
of  Amsterdam  had  no  relish  for  his  company,  he  was 
sent  home  again  with  all  speed.  Arriving  in  the 
month  of  July  at  Harwich,  and  going  thence  to  Bir¬ 
mingham,  he  made  in  the  latter  place,  in  August,  a 
public  profession  of  the  Jewish  religion ;  aud  figured 
there  as  a  Jew  until  he  was  arrested,  and  brought 
hack  to  London  to  receive  the  sentence  he  had 
evaded.  By  virtue  of  this  sentence  he  was,  in  the 
month  of  December,  cast  into  Newgate  for  five  years 
and  ten  months,  and  required  besides  to  pay  a  large 
fine,  and  to  furnish  heavy  securities  for  his  future 
good  behavior. 

After  addressing,  in  the  midsummer  of  the  follow¬ 
ing  year,  an  appeal  to  the  commiseration  of  the 
National  Assembly  of  France,  which  the  English 
minister  refused  to  sanction,  he  composed  himself  to 
undergo  his  full  term  of  punishment;  and  suffering 
his  beard  to  grow  nearly  to  his  waist,  and  conform¬ 
ing  in  all  respects  to  the  ceremonies  of  his  new  re¬ 
ligion,  he  applied  himself  to  the  study  of  history,  and 
occasionally  to  the  art  of  painting,  in  which,  in  his 
younger  days,  he  had  shown  some  skill.  Deserted 
by  his  former  friends,  and  treated  in  all  respects 
like  the  worst  criminal  in  the  jail,  he  lingered  on, 
quite  cheerful  and  resigned,  until  the  1st  of  Novem¬ 
ber,  1793,  when  he  died  in  his  cell,  being  then  only 
three-and-forty  years  of  age. 

Many  men  with  fewer  sympathies  for  the  dis¬ 
tressed  and  needy,  with  less  abilities  and  harder 
hearts,  have  made  a  shining  figure  and  left  a  brilliant 
fame.  He  had  his  mourners.  The  prisoners  be¬ 
moaned  his  loss,  and  missed  him;  for  though  his 


THE  SECRETARY  DIES. 


261 


meaiis  were  not  large,  his  charity  was  great,  and  in 
bestowing  alms  among  them  he  considered  the 
necessities  of  all  alike,  and  knew  no  distinction  of 
sect  or  creed.  There  are  wise  men  in  the  highways 
of  the  world  who  may  learn  something,  even  from 
this  poor  crazy  lord  who  died  in  Newgate. 

To  the  last,  he  was  truly  served  by  bluff  John 
Grueby.  John  was  at  his  side  before  he  had  been 


for  a  time  upon  his  traffic  in  his  master’s  secrets ; 
and,  this  trade  failing  when  the  stock  was  quite  ex¬ 
hausted,  procured  an  appointment  in  the  honorable 
corps  of  spies  and  eaves- droppers  employed  by  the 
government.  As  one  of  these  wretched  underlings, 
he  did  his  drudgery,  sometimes  abroad,  sometimes 
at  home,  and  long  endured  the  various  miseries  of 
such  a  station.  Ten  or  a  dozen  years  ago — not  more 


four-and-twenty  hours  in  the  Tower,  and  never  left 
him  until  he  died.  He  had  one  other  constant  at¬ 
tendant,  in  the  person  of  a  beautiful  Jewish  girl ; 
who  attached  herself  to  him  from  feelings  half  re¬ 
ligious,  half  romantic,  but  whose  virtuous  and  dis¬ 
interested  character  appears  to  have  been  beyond 
the  censure  even  of  the  most  censorious. 

Gashford  deserted  him,  of  course.  He  subsisted 


— a  meagre,  wan  old  man,  diseased  and  miserably 
poor,  was  found  dead  in  his  bed  at  an  obscure  inn  in 
the  Borough,  where  he  was  quite  unknown.  He  had 
taken  jmison.  There  was  no  clue  to  his  name ;  but 
it  was  discovered  from  certain  entries  in  a  pocket- 
book  he  carried,  that  he  had  been  secretary  to  Lord 
George  Gordon  in  the  time  of  the  famous  riots. 

Many  months  after  the  re-establishment  of  peace 


262 


BARNABY  BUDGE. 


and  order,  and  even  when  it  had  ceased  to  be  the 
town-talk,  that  every  military  officer,  kept  at  free 
quarters  by  the  City  during  the  late  alarms,  had  cost 
for  his  board  and  lodging  four  pounds  four  per  day, 
and  every  private  soldier  two  and  twopence  half¬ 
penny;  many  months  after  even  this  engrossing 
topic  was  forgotten,  and  the  Uuited  Bull-dogs  were 
to  a  man  all  killed,  imprisoned,  or  transported,  Mr. 
Simon  Tappertit,  being  removed  from  a  hospital  to 
prison,  and  thence  to  his  place  of  trial,  was  dis¬ 
charged  by  proclamation,  on  two  wooden  legs. 
Shorn  of  his  graceful  limbs,  and  brought  down  from 
his  high  estate  to  circumstances  of  utter  destitution, 
and  the  deepest  misery,  he  made  shift  to  stump  back 
to  his  old  master,  and  beg  for  some  relief.  By  the 
lock-smith’s  advice  and  aid,  he  was  established  in 
business  as  a  shoe-black,  and  opened  shop  under  an 
archway  near  the  Horse  Guards.  This  being  a  cen¬ 
tral  quarter,  he  quickly  made  a  very  large  connection ; 
and  on  levee  days,  was  sometimes  known  to  have  as 
many  as  twenty  half-pay  officers  waiting  their  turn 
for  polishing.  Indeed  his  trade  increased  to  that 
extent,  that  in  course  of  time  he  entertained  no  less 
than  two  apprentices,  besides  taking  for  his  wife  the 
widow  of  an  eminent  bone  and  rag  collector,  former¬ 
ly  of  Millbank.  With  this  lady  (who  assisted  in  the 
business)  he  lived  in  great  domestic  happiness,  only 
checkered  by  those  little  storms  which  serve  to  clear 
the  atmosphere  of  wedlock,  and  brighten  its  horizon. 
In  some  of  these  gusts  of  bad  weather,  Mr.  Tappertit 
would,  in  the  assertion  of  his  prerogative,  so  far  forget 
himself,  as  to  correct  his  lady  with  a  brush,  or  boot,  or 
shoe;  while  she  (but  only  in  extreme  cases)  wouldretal- 
iate  by  taking  off  his  legs,  and  leaving  him  exposed  to 
the  derision  of  those  urchins  who  delight  in  mischief. 

Miss  Miggs,  baffled  in  all  her  schemes,  matrimonial 
and  otherwise,  and  cast  upon  a  thankless,  undeserv¬ 
ing  world,  turned  very  sharp  and  feour ;  and  did  at 
length  become  so  acid,  and  did  so  pinch  and  slap  and 
tweak  the  hair  and  noses  of  the  youth  of  Golden 
Lion  Court,  that  she  was  by  one  consent  expelled 
that  sanctuary,  and  desired  to  bless  some  other  spot 
of  earth,  in  preference.  It  chanced  at  that  moment, 
that  the  justices  of  the  peace  for  Middlesex  proclaim¬ 
ed  by  public  placard  that  they  stood  in  need  of  a 
female  turnkey  for  the  County  Bridewell,  and  ap¬ 
pointed  a  day  and  hour  for  the  inspection  of  candi¬ 
dates.  Miss  Miggs  attending  at  the  time  appointed, 
was  instantly  chosen  and  selected  from  one  hundred 
and  twenty-four  competitors,  and  at  once  promoted 
to  the  office  ;  which  she  held  until  her  decease,  more 
than  thirty  years  afterward,  remaining  single  all 
that  time.  It  was  observed  of  this  lady  that  while 
she  was  inflexible  and  grim  to  all  her  female  flock, 
she  was  particularly  so  to  those  who  could  establish 
any  claim  to  beauty :  and  it  was  often  remarked  as 
a  proof  of  her  indomitable  virtue  and  severe  chastity, 
that  to  such  as  had  been  frail  she  showed  no  mercy ; 
always  falling  upon  them  on  the  slightest  occasion, 
or  on  no  occasion  at  all,  with  the  fullest  measure  of 
her  wrath.  Among  other  useful  inventions  which 
she  practiced  upon  this  class  of  offenders  and  be¬ 
queathed  to  posterity,  was  the  art  of  inflicting  an 
exquisitely  vicious  poke  or  dig  with  the  wards  of  a 
key  in  the  small  of  the  back,  near  the  spine.  She 
likewise  originated  a  mode  of  treading  by  accident  (in 


pattens)  on  such  as  had  small  feet ;  also  very  remarka¬ 
ble  for  its  ingenuity,  and  previously  quite  unknown. 

It  wras  not  very  long,  you  may  be  sure,  before  Joe 
Willet  and  Dolly  Varden  were  made  husband  and 
wife,  and  with  a  handsome  sum  in  bank  (for  the  lock¬ 
smith  could  afford  to  give  his  daughter  a  good  dow¬ 
ry),  re-opened  the  Maypole.  It  was  not  very  long, 
you  may  be  sure,  before  a  red-faced  little  boy  was 
seen  staggering  about  the  Maypole  passage,  and  kick¬ 
ing  up  his  heels  on  the  green  before  the  door.  It  was 
not  very  long,  counting  by  years,  before  there  was  a 
red-faced  little  girl,  another  red-faced  little  boy,  and 
a  whole  troop  of  girls  and  boys ;  so  that,  go  to  Chig- 
well  when  you  would,  there  would  surely  be  seen, 
either  in  the  village  street,  or  on  the  green,  or  frol¬ 
icking  in  the  farm-yard — for  it  was  a  farm  now,  as 
well  as  a  tavern — more  small  Joes  and  small  Dollys 
than  could  be  easily  counted.  It  was  not  a  very 
long  time  before  these  appearances  ensued ;  but  it 
was  a  very  long  time  before  Joe  looked  five  years 
older,  or  Dolly  either,  or  the  lock-smith  either,  or  his 
wife  either ;  for  cheerfulness  and  content  are  great 
beauti  tiers,  and  are  famous  preservers  of  youthful 
looks,  depend  upon  it. 

It  was  a  long  time,  too,  before  there  was  such  a 
country  inn  as  the  Maypole  in  all  England ;  indeed 
it  is  a  great  question  whether  there  has  ever  been 
such  another  to  this  hour,  or  ever  will  be.  It  was  a 
long  time  too — for  Never,  as  the  proverb  says,  is  a 
long  day — before  they  forgot  to  have  an  interest  in 
wounded  soldiers  at  the  Maypole,  or  before  Joe  omit¬ 
ted  to  refresh  them,  for  the  sake  of  his  old  campaign  ; 
or  before  the  sergeant  left  off  looking  in  there,  now 
and  then  ;  or  before  they  fatigued  themselves,  or  each 
other,  by  talking  on  these  occasions  of  battles  and 
sieges,  and  hard  weather  and  hard  service,  and  a 
thousand  things  belonging  to  a  soldier’s  life.  As  to 
the  great  silver  snnff-box  which  the  King  sent  Joe 
with  his  own  hand,  because  of  his  conduct  in  the 
Riots,  what  guest  ever  went  to  the  Maypole  without 
putting  finger  and  thumb  into  that  box,  and  taking 
a  great  pinch,  though  he  had  never  taken  a  pinch  of 
snuff  before,  and  almost  sneezed  himself  into  convul¬ 
sions  even  then  ?  As  to  the  purple-faced  vintner, 
where  is  the  man  who  lived  in  those  times  and  nev¬ 
er  saw  him  at  the  Maypole :  to  all  appearance  as 
much  at  home  in  the  best  room,  as  if  he  lived  there  ? 
And  as  to  the  feastings  and  christenings,  and  rev- 
elings  at  Christmas,  and  celebrations  of  birthdays, 
wedding-days,  and  all  manner  of  days,  both  at  the 
Maypole  and  the  Golden  Key — if  they  are  not  noto¬ 
rious,  what  facts  are  ? 

Mr.  Willet  the  elder,  having  been  by  some  extra¬ 
ordinary  means  possessed  with  the  idea  that  Joe 
wanted  to  be  married,  and  that  it  would  be  well  for 
him,  his  father,  to  retire  into  private  life,  and  enable 
him  to  live  in  comfort,  took  up  his  abode  in  a  small 
cottage  at  Chigwell;  where  they  widened  and  en¬ 
larged  the  fire-place  for  him,  hung  up  the  boiler,  and 
furthermore  planted  in  the  little  garden  outside  the 
front  door,  a  fictitious  Maypole  ;  so  that  he  was  quite 
at  home  directly.  To  this,  his  new  habitation,  Tom 
Cobb,  Phil  Parkes,  and  Solomon  Daisy  went  regular¬ 
ly  every  night :  and  in  the  chimney-corner,  they  all 
four  quaffed,  and  smoked,  and  prosed,  and  dozed,  as 
they  had  done  of  old.  It  being  accidentally  discov- 


GRIP  RECOVERS  HIS  LOOKS. 


263 


ered  after  a  short  time  that  Mr.  Willet  still  appear¬ 
ed  to  consider  himself  a  landlord  by  profession,  Joe 
provided  him  with  a  slate,  upon  which  the  old  mau 
regularly  scored  up  vast  accounts  for  meat,  drink, 
and  tobacco.  As  he  grew  older  this  passion  increas¬ 
ed  upon  him;  and  it  became  his  delight  to  chalk 
against  the  name  of  each  of  his  cronies  a  sum  of 
enormous  magnitude,  and  impossible  to  be  paid ; 
and  such  was  his  secret  joy  in  these  entries,  that  he 
would  be  perpetually  seen  going  behind  the  door  to 
look  at  them,  and  coming  forth  again,  suffused  with 
the  liveliest  satisfaction. 

He  never  recovered  the  surprise  the  Rioters  had 
given  him,  and  remained  in  the  same  mental  condi¬ 
tion  down  to  the  last  moment  of  his  life.  It  was 
like  to  have  been  brought  to  a  speedy  termination 
by  the  first  sight  of  his  first  grandchild,  which  ap¬ 
peared  to  fill  him  with  the  belief  that  some  alarming 
miracle  had  happened  to  Joe.  Being  promptly 
blooded,  however,  by  a  skillful  surgeon,  he  rallied: 
and  although  the  doctors  all  agreed,  on  his  being  at¬ 
tacked  with  symptoms  of  apoplexy  six  months  after¬ 
ward,  that  he  ought  to  die,  and  took  it  very  ill  that 
he  did  not,  he  remained  alive — possibly  on  account 
of  his  constitutional  slowness  —  for  nearly  seven 
years  more,  when  he  was  one  morning  found  speech¬ 
less  in  his  bed.  He  lay  in  this  state,  free  from  all 
tokens  of  uneasiness,  for  a  whole  week,  when  he  was 
suddenly  restored  to  consciousness  by  hearing  the 
nurse  whisper  in  his  son’s  ears  that  he  was  going. 
“  I’m  agoing,  Joseph,”  said  Mr.  Willet,  turning  round 
upon  the  instant,  “  to  the  Salwanners  ” — and  imme¬ 
diately  gave  up  the  ghost. 

He  left  a  large  sum  of  money  behind  him ;  even 
more  than  he  was  supposed  to  have  been  worth,  al¬ 
though  the  neighbors,  according  to  the  custom  of 
mankind  in  calculating  the  wealth  that  other  people 
ought  to  have  saved,  had  estimated  his  property  in 
good  round  numbers.  Joe  inherited  the  whole ;  so 
that  he  became  a  man  of  great  consequence  in  those 
parts,  and  was  perfectly  independent. 

Some  time  elapsed  before  Barnaby  got  the  better 
of  the  shock  he  had  sustained,  or  regained  his  old 
health  and  gayety.  But  he  recovered  by  degrees : 
and  although  he  could  never  separate  his  condemna¬ 
tion  and  escape  from  the  idea  of  a  terrific  dream,  he 
became,  in  other  respects,  more  rational.  Dating 
from  the  time  of  his  recovery,  he  had  a  better  mem¬ 
ory  and  greater  steadiness  of  purpose;  but  a  dark 
cloud  overhung  his  whole  previous  existence,  and 
never  cleared  away. 


He  was  not  the  less  happy  for  this  ;  for  his  love  of 
freedom  and  interest  in  all  that  moved  or  grew,  or 
had  its  being  in  the  elements,  remained  to  him  un¬ 
impaired.  He  lived  with  his  mother  on  the  Maypole 
farm,  tending  the  poultry  and  the  cattle,  working  in 
a  garden  of  his  own,  and  helping  everywhere.  He 
was  known  to  every  bird  and  beast  about  the  place, 
and  had  a  name  for  every  one.  Never  was  there  a 
lighter-hearted  husbandman,  a  creature  more  popu¬ 
lar  with  young  and  old,  a  blither  or  more  happy  soul 
than  Barnaby ;  and  though  he  was  free  to  ramble 
where  he  would,  he  never  quitted  Her,  but  was  for 
evermore  her  stay  and  comfort. 

It  was  remarkable  that  although  he  had  that  dim 
sense  of  the  past,  he  sought  out  Hugh’s  dog,  and  took 
him  under  his  care;  and  that  he  never  could  be 
tempted  into  London.  When  the  Riots  were  many 
years  old,  and  Edward  and  his  wife  came  back  to 
England  with  a  family  almost  as  numerous  as  Dol¬ 
ly’s,  and  one  day  appeared  at  the  Maypole  porch,  he 
knew  them  instantly,  and  wept  and  leaped  for  joy. 
But  neither  to  visit  them,  nor  on  any  other  pretense, 
no  matter  how  full  of  promise  and  enjoyment,  could 
he  be  persuaded  to  set  foot  in  the  streets  ;  nor  did  he 
ever  conquer  his  repugnance  or  look  upon  the  town 
again. 

Grip  soon  recovered  his  looks,  and  became  as  glossy 
and  sleek  as  ever.  But  he  was  profoundly  silent. 
Whether  he  had  forgotten  the  art  of  Polite  Conver¬ 
sation  in  Newgate,  or  had  made  a  vow  in  those  troub¬ 
led  times  to  forego,  for  a  period,  the  display  of  his 
accomplishments,  is  matter  of  uncertainty;  but  cer¬ 
tain  it  is  that  for  a  whole  year  he  never  indulged  in 
any  other  sound  than  a  grave,  decorous  croak.  At 
the  expiration  of  that  term,  the  morning  being  very 
bright  and  sunny,  he  was  heard  to  address  himself  to 
the  horses  in  the  stable,  upon  the  subject  of  the  Ket¬ 
tle,  so  often  mentioned  in  these  pages ;  and  before 
the  witness  who  overheard  him  could  run  into  the 
house  with  the  intelligence,  and  add  to  it  upon  his 
solemn  affirmation  the  statement  that  he  had  heard 
him  laugh,  the  bird  himself  advanced  with  fantastic 
steps  to  the  very  door  of  the  bar,  and  there  cried, 
“  I’m  a  devil,  Pm  a  devil,  I’m  a  devil !”  with  extraor¬ 
dinary  rapture. 

From  that  period  (although  he  was  supposed  to  be 
much  affected  by  the  death  of  Mr.  Willet  senior)  he 
constantly  practiced  and  improved  himself  in  the 
vulgar  tongue;  and,  as  he  was  a  mere  infant  for  a 
raven  when  Barnaby  was  gray,  he  has  very  prob¬ 
ably  gone  on  talking  to  the  present  time. 


THE  END. 


* 


' 


< 

i '  ; 


■ 


. 


-.1',  . . 


1  • 


■ 


-  ».  »  -- 

* 


* 


’  • 


1  '  ’  ♦  .  •  ’»  i  -  fM  .  *  .  •  •  .  . 

‘  -  '  .  ♦  *  . 


i 


- - 


c 


j  X  ,  •  .  *  . 


- 


.  .  . 


' 


. 


1 .  :  >  ,y  - 


♦  . 

V  ' 


U.-.  :  —  .  :  |,f  ■  ■  r':-  ;  r  ►  v  t 


. 


*»  •  n"  ••  r  .. 

■  •'  . 

' 

■  '  ‘ 

v 

*  '  ,  /'!  ? 


..  ,  ....  ... 

’ 


' 

.  *  t  '  •••  I*,* 

•  *"*  -  ' 

■  U  i  -  '• 

. 


•„  » .  ■  ■  ‘ 


>•  , 


.  •  . 


t 


'  *  ■  -  r 

*  * 


Novels  are  sweets.  All  people  with  healthy  literary  appetites  love  them — almost  all  women ;  a 
vast  number  of  clever,  hard-headed  men.  Judges,  bishops,  chancellors,  mathematicians,  are  notorious 
novel  readers,  as  well  as  young  boys  and  sweet  girls,  and  their  kind,  tender  mothers. — W.  M.  Thack¬ 
eray,  in  Roundabout  Papers. 


A  COMPLETE  LIST 

PUBLISHED  BY 


OF  NOVELS 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS,  NEW  YORK. 


For  full  titles  and  description ,  see  Harper’s  Catalogue,  which  will  be  sent  by  mail 

on  receipt  of  ten  cents. 

The  Novels  in  this  List ,  except  where  otherwise  designated ,  are  in  Octavo,  pamphlet  form.  The 
Duodecimo  Novels  are  bound  in  Cloth ,  unless  otherwise  specified. 


PKICE 

AGUILAR’S  Home  Influence,  . 12mo$l  00 

The  Mother’s  Recompense . ,  75 

AINSWORTH’S  Crichton . 12mo  1  50 

ALAMANCE . 50 

ANDERSEN’S  (Hans  Christian)  The  Impro- 

visatore .  50 

Only  a  Fiddler  and  O.T .  50 

ANNE  Furness .  75 

BACHELOR  of  the  Albany . 12mo  1  50 

BAKER’S  The  New- Timothy . 12mo  I  50 

Inside  :  a  Chronicle  of  Secession.  Illus¬ 
trated . .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

BANIM’S.  The  Smuggler . 12mo  1  50 

BELIAL .  50 

BELL’S  (Miss)  Julia  Howard .  50 

BENEATH  the  Wheels .  50 

BENEDICT’S  John  Worthington’s  Name...  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Miss  Dorothy’s  Charge .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Miss  Van  Kortland .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

My  Daughter  Elinor .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

BLACK’S  Kilmeny . . .  50 

A  Daughter  of  Heth .  50 

In  Silk  Attire .  50 

Love  or  Marriage? .  50 

The  Monarch  of  Mincing  Lane.  Ill’s.  50 

The  Strange  Adventures  of  a  Phaeton.  75 

A  Princess  of  Thule .  75 

BLACKMORE’S  Cradock  Nowell .  75 

The  Maid  of  Sker .  75 

Alice  Lorraine.  ( In  Press.} 

BLACKWELL’S  (Mrs.  A.  B.)  The  Island 

Neighbors.  Illustrated .  75 

BLUE  Ribbon,  The .  50 

BORROW’S  Lavengro .  75 

Romany  Rve . „ .  75 

I 


PRICE 

BRADDON’S  (Miss)  Aurora  Floyd . $  75 

A  Strange  World.  ( In  Press.} 

Birds  of  Prey.  Illustrated .  75 

Bound  to  John  Company.  Illustrated.  75 

Charlotte’s  Inheritance .  50 

Dead  Sea  Fruit.  Illustrations .  50 

Eleanor’s  Victory . 75 

Fenton’s  Quest.  Illustrated .  50 

John  Marchmont’s  Legacy .  75 

Lost  for  Love.  Illustrated.  (In  Press.} 

Publicans  and  Sinners .  75 

Strangers  and  Pilgrims.  Illustrated.  75 

Taken  at  the  Flood .  75 

The  Lovels  of  Arden.  Illustrated .  75 

To  the  Bitter  End.  Illustrated .  75 

BREACH  of  Promise .  50 

BREMER’S  (Miss)  Brothers  and  Sisters .  50 

New  Sketches  of  Every-Day  Life .  50 

Nina . 50 

The  H.  Family .  50 

The  Home .  50 

The  Midnight  Sun .  25 

The  Neighbors .  50 

The  Parsonage  of  Mora .  25 

The  President’s  Daughters .  25 

BRONTE’S  (Charlotte)  Jane  Eyre .  75 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  50 

Shirley .  1  00 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  50 

Villette .  75 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  50 

The  Professor.  Illustrated . 12mo  1  50 


(Anna)  The  Tenant  of  Wildfell  Hall. 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  50 
(Emily)  Wuthering  Heights.  Illustrated. 

12mo  1  50 

BROOKS’S  Sooner  or  Later.  Illustrated....  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 


The  Gordian  Knot .  50 

The  Silver  Cord.  Illustrated . 1  50 


Cloth  2  00 


2 


A  Co??iplete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  Brothers. 


PBICB 


BROUGHAM’S  Albert  Lunel . $  75 

BRUNTON’S  (Mary)  Self-Control .  75 

BULWER’S  Alice .  £0 

A  Strange  Story.  Illustrated .  1  00 

12mo  1  25 

Devereux .  50 

Ernest  Maltravers .  50 

Eugene  Aram . 50 

Godolphin .  50 

12mo  1  50 

Harold,  the  Last  of  the  Saxon  Kings -  1  00 

Kenelm  Chillingly . .  75 

12mo  1  25 

Leila .  50 

12mo  1  00 

Lucretia . 75 

My  Novel .  1  50 

2  vols.  12mo  2  50 

Night  and  Morning. . .  75 

Paul  Clifford .  50 

Pelham .  75 

Rienzi. . .  75 

The  Caxtons .  75 

12mo  1  25 

The  Disowned .  75 

The  Last  Days  of  Pompeii .  50 

The  Last  of  the  Barons .  1  00 

The  Pilgrims  of  the  Rhine .  25 

The  Parisians.  Illustrated .  1  00 

12mo  1  50 

What  will  He  do  with  it? .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

Zanoni .  50 

BULWER’S  (Robert — “Owen  Meredith”) 

The  Ring  of  Amasis . 12mo  1  50 

BURBURY’S  (Mrs.)  Florence  Sackville .  75 

BURNEY’S  (Miss)  Evelina . 12mo  1  00 

CAMPBELL’S  (Miss)  Self-Devotion .  50 

CAPRON’S  (Miss)  Helen  Lincoln . 12mo  1  50 

CARLEN’S  (Miss)  Ivar;  or.  The  Skjuts-Boy.  50 

The  Brothers’  Bet .  25 

The  Lover’s  Stratagem .  50 

CASTE.  By  the  Author  of  “  Colonel  Dacre.”  50 

CHARLES  Auchester . 75 

CHURCH’S  (Mrs.  Ross)  Her  Lord  and  Mas¬ 
ter . 50 

The  Prey  of  the  Gods . .  30 

CITIZEN  of  Prague .  1  00 

CLARKE’S  The  Beauclercs,  Father  and  Son.  50 

COLLINS’S  (Mortimer)The  Vivian  Romance.  50 

COLLINS’S  (Wilkie)  Armadale.  Illustrated.  1  00 

Antonina . 50 

Man  and  Wife.  Illustrated .  1  00 

No  Name.  Illustrated .  1  00 

Poor  Miss  Finch.  Illustrated .  1  00 

The  Moonstone.  Illustrated .  1  00 

The  New  Magdalen .  50 


The  Woman  in  White.  Illustrated. ...  1  00 


COLLINS’S  (Wilkie) 

Edition . 

Antonina. 

Armadale. 

Basil. 

Hide-and-Seek. 
Man  and  Wife'. 

No  Name. 

After  Dark1,  and 
Other  Stories. 


Illustrated  Library 

. 12mo,  per  vol.  1  50 

Poor  Miss  Finch. 

The  Dead  Secret. 

The  Moonstone. 

The  New  Magdalen. 

The  Woman  in  White. 

My  Miscellanies. 

Queen  of  Hearts. 


PBICB 

COLONEL  Dacre.  By  the  Author  of  “Caste. ’’$  50 

CONSTANCE  Lyndsay .  50 

COOKE’S  Henry  St.John . 12mo  1  50 

Leather  Stocking  and  Silk . 12mo  1  50 

CORNWALLIS’S  Pilgrims  of  Fashion. 12mo  1  00 
CRAIK’S  (Mrs.  D.  M.).  See  Miss  Mulock. 

(Miss  G.  M.)  Mildred .  50 

CUNNINGHAM’S  Lord  Roldan . . .  1  50 

CURTIS'S  Trumps.  Illustrated . 12mo  2  00 

D’ARBOUVILLE’S  Tales . 12mo  1  50 

DTSRAELI’S  The  Young  Duke . 12mo  1  50 

D’ORSAY’S  (Countess)  Clouded  Happiness.  50 

DANGEROUS  Guest,  A .  50 

DE  BEAUVOIR’S  Safia .  50 

DE  FOREST’S  Miss  Ravenel’s  Conversion 

from  Secession  to  Loyalty _ 12mo  1  50 

DE  MILLE’S  Cord  and  Creese,  illustrated.  75 


Cloth  1  25 

The  American  Baron.  Illustrated .  100 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Crvptogram.  Illustrated .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

The  Dodge  Club.  Illustrated .  75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Living  Link.  Illustrated.  (In  Tress.') 

DE  VIGNY’S  Cinq  Mars .  50 

DENISON’S  (Mrs.)  Home  Pictures. . .  .12mo  1  50 
DICKENS’S  Novels.  Illustrated. 

Oliver  Twist .  50 

Cloth  1  00 

Martin  Chuzzlewit .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Old  Curiositv  Shop .  75 

Cloth  1  25 

David  Copperfield .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Dombey  and  Son . . . ;...  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Nicholas  Nicklebv. . .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Bleak  House .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Pickwick  Papers .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Little  Dorrit .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Barnabv  Rudge .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 


Our  Mutual  Friend.  (In  Press.) 

A  Tale  of  Two  Cities.  (In  Press.) 

Great  Expectations.  (In  Press.) 

Christmas  Stories.  (In  Press.) 

Bleak  House.  Illustrated.  .2  vols.,  12mo  3  00 


Hard  Times .  50 

12mo  1  25 

Mrs.  Lirriper’s  Legacy .  10 

The  Mvstery  of  Edwin  Drood.  Ill’s _  25 

DRAYTON . 12  mo  1  50 

DRURY’S  (Miss  A.  H.)  Eastburv . 12mo  1  50 

Misrepresentation . . .  1  00 

DUMAS’S  (Alex.)  Am aury .  50 

Ascanio .  75 

Chevalier  d’Harmental .  50 

DUPUY’S  (Miss  E.  A.)  Country  Neighbor¬ 
hood  .  50 

The  Huguenot  Exiles . 12mo  1  25 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6°  Brothers. 


3 


PRICE 

EDGEWORTH’S  (Miss)  Novels.  Engrav¬ 
ings . 10  vols.,  12mo,  per  vol.$l  50 

Vol.  I.  Castle  Raekrent;  Essay  on 
Irish  Bulls ;  Essay  on  Self-J ustification ; 

The  Prussian  Vase;  The  Good  Aunt. 

Vol.  II.  Angelina ;  The  Good 
French  Governess ;  Mademoiselle 
Panache;  The  Knapsack;  Lame  Jer¬ 
vis;  The  Will;  Out  of  Debt,  Out  of 
Danger  ;  The  Limerick  Gloves  ;  The 
Lottery ;  Rosanna. 

Vol.  III.  Murad  the  Unlucky ;  The 
Manufacturers ;  Ennui ;  The  Con¬ 
trast;  The  Grateful  Negro;  To-mor¬ 
row  ;  The  Dun. 

Vol.  IY.  Manoeuvring;  Almeria; 
Vivian. 

Yol.  Y.  The  Absentee ;  Madame  de 
Fleury;  Emily  de  Boulanges ;  The 
Modern  Griselda. 

Vol.  VI.  Belinda. 

Vol.  VII.  Leonora;  Letters  on  Fe¬ 
male  Education ;  Patronage. 

Vol.  V 1 1 1 .  Patronage ;  Co  mic  D  ramas. 

Vol.  IX.  Harrington ;  Thoughts  on 
Bores;  Ormond. 

Vol.  X.  Helen. 

Frank . 2  vols.  18mo  1 

Harry  and  Lucy . 2  vols.  18mo  3 

Moral  Tales . 2  vols.  18mo  1 

Popular  Tales . 2  vols.  18mo  1 

Rosamond . 12mo  1 

EDWARDS’S  (Amelia  B.)  Barbara’s  History. 
Debenham’s  Vow.  Illustrated . 


50 
00 
50 
50 
50 
75 
75 

Half  a  Million  of  Money . . .  75 

Hand  and  Glove . 

Miss  Carew . . . 


50 
50 

My  Brother’s  Wife .  50 

The  Ladder  of  Life .  50 

(M.  B.)  Kitty . .  50 

EILO ART’S  (Mrs.)  Curate’s  Discipline .  50 

From  Thistles — Grapes  ? .  50 

ELIOT’S  (George)  Novels. 

Adam  Bede.  Illustrated . h'mo  1  00 

Felix  Holt,  the  Radical .  75 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  00 

Middlemarch .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

2  vols.  12mo  3  50 

Romola.  Illustrated .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life  and  Silas  Maimer. 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  00 

The  Mill  on  the  Floss .  75 

Illustrated.  P2mo  1  00 

ELLIS’S  (Mrs.)  Home . 12mo  1  50 

Look  to  the  End .  50 

Chapters  on  Wives . 12mo  1  50 

ESTELLE  Russell .  75 

FALKENBURG . 75 

FARJEON’S  Blade-o’-Grass.  Illustrations.  35 

Bread-and-Cheese  and  Kisses.  Ill’s. ...  35 

Golden  Grain.  Illustrated .  35 

Grif . 40 

Cloth  90 

Joshua  Marvel .  40 

Cloth  90 

London’s  Heart.  Illustrated .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

FEMALE  Minister,  The .  50 


PRICE 

FERRIER’S  (Miss)  Marriage . . . $  50 

FIELDING’S  Amelia . 12ino  1  50 

Tom  Jones . 2  vols,  12mo  2  75 

FIRST  Friendship,  A .  50 

FIVE  Hundred  Pounds  Reward .  50 

FLAGG’S  A  Good  Investment.  Illustrated.  50 

FRANCILLON’S  The  Earl’s  Dene .  50 

FREYTAG’S  Debit  and  Credit . 12mo  1  50 

FULLOM’S  Daughter  of  Night .  50 

GARIBALDI’S  Rule  of  the  Monk .  50 

GASKELL’S  (Mrs.)  Cranford . 12mo  1  25 

Dark  Night’s  Work,  A .  50 

Mary  Barton .  50 

Moorland  Cottage . 18n<o  75 

My  Lady  Ludlow . . .  25 

North  and  South . 50 

Right  at  Last,  &c . 12mo  1  50 

Sylvia’s  Lovers .  75 

Cousin  Phillis .  25 

Wives  and  Daughters.  Illustrations. . .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

GIBBON’S  For  Lack  of  Gold .  50 

For  the  King .  50 

Robin  Grav . .  50 

GILBERT  Rugge.... .  1  00 

GODDARD’S  (Julia)  Baffled .  75 

GODWIN’S  Caleb  Williams . 16mo,  Paper  37 

Cloth  1  00 

GOLDSMITH’S  Vicar  of  Wakefield. .  .18mo, 

Cloth  75 

GOLD  Worshipers .  50 

GORE’S  (Mrs.)  Peers  and  Parvenus .  50 

The  Banker’s  Wife .  50 

The  Birthright .  25 

The  Queen  of  Denmark .  50 

The  Royal  Favorite  .  50 

GRATTAN’S  Chance  Light  Medley .  50 

GREEN  Hand,  The .  75 

GREENWOOD’S  True  History  of  a  Little 

Ragamuffin . .  50 

GREY’S  (Mrs.)  The  Bosom  Friend .  50 

The  Gambler’s  Wife . *  5‘.> 

The  Young  Husband .  50 

GWYNNE’S  The  School  for  Fathers ...  12mo  1  25 

HAKLANDER’S  Clara . ...... 12mo  1  50 

HALL’S  (Mrs.  S.  C.)  Midsummer  Eve .  50 

Tales  of  Woman’s  Trials .  75 

The  Whiteboy .  50 

HAMILTON’S  Cyril  'Ihornton.. . 12mo  1  50 

HAMLEY’S  Lady  Lee’s  Widowhood .  50 

HANNAY’S  (D.)  Ned  Allen .  50 

(J.)  Singleton  Fontenoy .  50 

HARDY’S  (Lady)  Daisy  Nichol . ’. . . .  50 

HEIR  Expectant,  The .  50 

HIDDEN  Sin,  The .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

HOEY’S  (Mrs.)  A  Golden  Sorrow .  50 

HOFLAND’S  (Mrs.)  Daniel  Dennison .  50 

The  Czarina  .  50 

The  Unloved  One .  50 

HOPE’S  Anastasius . 12mo  1  50 

HOWITT’S  (Mary)  The  Author’s  Daughter.  25 

Who  Shall  be  Greatest? . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

The  Heir  of  Wast  Wayland . 12mo  1  50 

(Wm.)  Jack  of  the  Mill .  25 

HUBBACIv’S  Wife’s  Sister .  50 

HUGO’S  Ninety-Three .  75 

12mo  1  75 

The  Toilers  of  the  Sea.  Illustrated .  75 

Cloth  1  50 


4 


A  Complete,  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6°  Brothers. 


PRICE  | 


PRICE 


HUNGERFORD’S  The  Old  Plantation. 12moJl  50 


HUNT’S  The  Foster  Brother .  50 

INCHBALD’S  (Mrs.)  A  Simple  Story .  50 

IN  Duty  Bound.  Illustrated . 50 

ISABEL . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

JAMES’S  Leonora  d’Orco .  50 

The  Old  Dominion .  50 

Ticonderoga . .  50 

A  Life  of  Vicissitudes .  50 

Agnes  Sorel .  50 

Pequinillo .  50 

Aims  and  Obstacles .  50 

The  Fate .  50 

The  Commissioner .  1  00 

Henrv  Smeaton .  50 

The  Old  Oak  Chest .  50 

The  Woodman .  75 

The  Forgery .  50 

Thirty  Years  Since .  75 

A  Whim  and  its  Consequences .  50 

Gowrie;  or,  The  King's  Plot .  50 

Sir  Theodore  Broughton .  50 

The  Last  of  the  Fairies .  25 

The  Convict .  50 

Margaret  Graham .  25 

Russell .  50 

The  Castle  of  Ehrenstein .  50 

Beauchamp .  75 

Heidelberg .  50 

The  Step-Mother .  1  25 

The  Smuggler .  75 

Agincourt .  50 

Arrah  Neil .  50 

Rose  d’Albret .  50 

Arabella  Stuart .  50 

The  False  Heir .  50 

Forest  Days .  50 

The  Club  Book . 12mo  1  50 

De  L’Orme . . 12mo  1  50 

The  Gentleman  of  the  Old  School . .  12mo  1  50 

The  Gipsy . . .  ...  .12mo  1  50 

.  Henry  of  Guise . 12mo  1  50 

Henry  Mast erton . 12mo  1  50 

The  Jacquerie . 12mo  1  50 

Morley  Ernstein . 12mo  1  50 

One  in  a  Thousand . 12mo  1  50 

Philip  Augustus . . . 12mo  1  50 

Attila . 12mo  1  50 

Corse  de  Lion . 12mo  1  50 

The  Ancient  Regime . 12m  o  1  50 

The  Man  at  Arms . 12mo  1  50 

Charles  Tyrrel . 12mo  1  50 

The*  Robber . . 12mo  1  50 

Richilieu . 12mo  1  50 

The  Huguenot . 12mo  1  50 

The  King’s  Highway . 12mo  1  50 

The  String  of  Pearls . 12mo  1  25 

Mary  of  Burgundy . 12mo  1  50 

Darnley . 12mo  1  50 

John  Marston  Hall . 12mo  1  50 

The  Desultory  Man . 12mo  1  50 

JEAFFRESON’S  Isabel . 12mo  1  50 

Live  it  Down .  1  00 

Lottie  Darling .  75 

Not  Dead  Yet.... .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

Olive  Blake’s  Good  Work .  75 

JEANIE’S  Quiet  Life .  50 

JESSIE’S  Flirtations  . . .  50 

JERROLD’S  Chronicles  of  Clovernook .  25 


JEWSBURY’S(  Miss)  Adopted  Child . .  16mo.fl  00 

Constance  Herbert .  50 

Zoe... . 50 

JILT,  The .  50 

JOSEPH  the  Jew .  50 

KATHLEEN .  50 

KINGSLEY’S  (Chas.)  Alton  Locke  . . .  .12mo  1  50 

Yeast . 12mo  1  50 

(Henry)  Hetty . 25 

Stretton .  40 

KNORRING’S  The  Peasant  and  his  Landlord. 

12mo  1  50 

KNOWLES’S  Fortescue .  1  00 

LAJETCHNIKOFF’S  The  Heretic .  50 

LAMARTINE’S  Genevieve. ..  .12mo,  Paper  25 

Raphael . 12mo  1  25 

Stone  Mason  of  St.  Point . 12mo  1  25 

LAWRENCE’S  (Geo.  A.)  Anteros .  50 

Brakespeare .  50 

Breaking  a  Butterfly .  35 

Guy  Livingstone . 12mo  1  50 

Hagarene.  (In  Press.) 

Maurice  Dering .  50 

Sans  Merci .  50 

Sword  and  Gown .  25 

LEE’S  (Holme)  Annis  Warleigh’s  Fortunes.  75 

Kathie  Brande . . . 12mo  1  50 

Mr.  Wyn3rard’s  Ward .  50 

Sylvan  Holt’s  Daughter . 12mo  1  50 

LE  FANU’S  All  in  the  Dark .  50 

A  Lost  Name .  50 

Guy  Deverell .  50 

The  Tenants  of  Malory .  50 

Uncle  Silas . 75 

LE  SAGE’S  Gil  Bias . 12mo  1  50 

LEVER’S  A  Day’s  Ride .  50 

Bramleighs  of  Bishop’s  Folly . . .  50 

Barrington .  75 

Daltons .  1  50 

Dodd  Family  Abroad . 1  25 

Gerald  Fitzgerald .  50 

Glencore  and  his  Fortunes .  50 

Lord  Kilgobbin.  Illustrated .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Luttrell  of  Arran .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Martins  of  Cro’  Martin .  1  25 

Maurice  Tiernay .  1  00 

One  of  Them .  75 

Roland  Cashel.  Engravings .  1  25 

Sir  Brook  Fosbrooke .  50 

Sir  Jasper  Carew .  75 

That  Bov  of  Norcott’s.  Illustrated .  25 

Tony  Butler .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

LEWES’S  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.  75 

LILY . . . 12  mo  1  25 

LINTON’S  (Mrs.)  Lizzie  Lcrton  of  Greyrigg.  75 

Sowing  the  Wind .  50 

LIVONIAN  Tales .  25 

LOCKHART’S  Fair  to  See .  75 

MCCARTHY’S  My  Enemy’s  Daughter.  Ill’s.  75 

The  Waterdale  Neighbors .  50 


McINTOSH’S  (Miss)  Conquest  and  Self- 

Conquest . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

The  Cousins . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

Praise  and  Principle . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

Woman  an  Enigma . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

MABEL’S  Progress . . .  50 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  6°  Brothers, 


5 


PRICE  | 

MABERLY’-S  (Mrs.)  Lady  and  the  Priest.  .$  50 


Leontine .  50 

MACDONALD’S  Alec  Forbes .  75 

Annals  of  a  Quiet  Neighborhood  .  .12mo  1  75 

Guild  Court .  50 

MACKENZIE’S  (Henrv)  Novels . 12mo  1  50 

MACQUOID’S  (Mrs.)  Patty .  50 

Too  Soon .  50 

MAID  of  Honor,  The . 50 

MAID  of  Orleans,  The .  75 

MARGARET  Denzil’s  History . .'.  75 

MARGARET’S  Engagement .  50 

MARLITT’S  Countess  Gisela . . .  25 

MARRYAT’S  (Capt.)  Children  of  New  For¬ 
est . 12mo  1  25 

Japhet  in  Search  of  a  Father . 12mo  1  25 

Little  Savage . . 12mo  1  25 

MARSH’S  (Mrs.)  Adelaide  Lindsay . .  50 

Angela . 12mo  1  50 

Aubrey .  75 

Castle  Avon .  50 

Emilia  Wyndham .  75 

Evelyn  Marston .  50 

Father  Darcy .  75 

Heiress  of  Haughton .  50 

Lettice  Arnold .  25 

Mordaunt  Hall .  50 

Norman’s  Bridge . .  50 

Ravenscliffe .  50 

Rose  of  Ashurst . 50 

Time,  the  Avenger .  50 

Triumphs  of  Time .  75 

Wilmingtons .  50 

MARTINEAU’S  (Harriet)  The  Hour  and  the 

Man .  50 

MATURIN’S  Bianca . 12mo  1  25 

MEINHOLD’S  Sidonia  the  Sorceress .  1  00 

MELVILLE’S  Mardi . 2  vols.  12mo  3  00 

Moby -Dick . 12mo  1  75 

Omoo . 12mo  1  50 

Pierre . 12mo  1  50 

Redburn . 12mo  1  50 

Typee . 12mo  1  50 

Whitejacket . 12mo  1  50 

MEREDITH’S  Evan  Harrington . 12mo  1  50 

META’S  Faith . 50 

MILMAN’S  Arthur  Conway .  50 

The  Wayside  Cross . 25 

MORE’S  (Hannah)  Complete  Works.  En¬ 
gravings . 1  vol.  8  vo,  Sheep  3  00 

2  vols.  8vo,  Cloth  4  00 
Sheep  5  00 

The  Same . ..7  vols.  12mo  8  75 

MOTHER’S  Trials,  A . 12mo  1  25 

MOULTON’S  My  Third  Book . 12mo  1  25 

MUHLBACH’S  Bernthal .  50 

MULOCK’S  (Miss)  My  Mother  and  I.  11-  50 

lustrated . 12mo  1  50 

A  Brave  Lady.  Illustrated .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

12mo  1  50 


The  Woman’s  Kingdom.  Illustrated...  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 
12  mo  1  50 

A  Hero,  &c . 12mo  1  25 

A  Life  for  a  Life .  50 

12mo  1  50 


PRICE 

MULOCK’S  (Miss)  Agatha’s  Husband . $  50 

12mo  1  50 

Avillion,  and  Other  Tales .  1  25 

Christian’s  Mistake . 12mo  1  50 

A  Noble  Life . 12mo  1  50 

Hannah.  Illustrated .  50 

12mo  1  50 

Head  of  the  Family .  75 

12mo  1  50 

John  Halifax,  Gentleman .  75 

Illustrated.  12mo  1  50 

Mistress  and  Maid .  50 

12mo  1  50 

Nothing  New .  50 

Ogilvies . 50 

12mo  1  50 

Olive .  50 

12mo  1  50 

A  French  Country  Family.  Translated. 

Illustrations . . . 12mo  1  50 

Motherless.  Translated.  Ill’s _ 12mo  1  50 

Unkind  Word  and  Other  Stories. ..12mo  1  50 

Two  Marriages . 12mo  1  50 

MURRAY’S  The  Prairie  Bird . .  1  00 

MY  Husband’s  Crime.  Illustrated .  75 

MY  Uncle  the  Curate .  50 

NABOB  at  Home,  The .  50 

NATURE’S  Nobleman .  50 

NEALE’S  The  Lost  Ship .  75 

NICHOLS’S  The  Sanctuary.  Ill’s . 12mo  1  50 

NORA  and  Archibald  Lee .  50 

NORTON’S  Stuart  of  Dunleath .  50 

OLIPH ANT’S  (Mrs.)  Agnes .  75 

Athelings . v .  75 

Brownlows .  37 

Chronicles  of  Carlingford .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

Days  of  My  Life . 12mo  1  50 

The  House  on  the  Moor . 12mo  1  50 

Innocent.  Illustrated .  75 

John:  a  Love  Story . * .  50 

Katie  Stewart .  25 

The  Laird  of  Norlaw . 12mo  1  50 

The  Last  of  the  Mortimers . 12mo  1  50 

Lucy  Crofton . 12mo  1  50 

Madonna  Mary .  50 

Miss  Majoribanks .  50 

Ombra .  75 

The  Perpetual  Curate .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

Quiet  Heart .  25 

Son  of  the  Soil .  1  00 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Minister’s  Wife .  75 

PAYN’S  (Jas.)  At  Her  Mercy .  50 

A  Woman’s  Vengeance .  50 

Best  of  Husbands.  (In  Press.) 

Beggar  on  Horseback .  35 

Bred  in  the  Bone .  50 

Carlyon’s  Year .  25 

Cecil’s  Tryst .  50 

Found  Dead .  50 

Gwendoline’s  Harvest .  25 

Murphy’s  Master . 25 

One  of  the  Family .  25 

Won — Not  Wooed .  50 

PICKERINGS  (Miss)  The  Grandfather .  50 

The  Grumbler .  50 

POINT  of  Honor,  A .  50 


6 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  &  Brothers. 


PRICE 

POLLARD’S  (Eliza  F.)  Hops  Deferred . $  50 


PONSONBY’S  (Lady)  Discipline  of  Life. ...  50 

Mary  Lindsay .  50 

Pride  and  Irresolution .  50 

PROFESSOR’S  Lady .  25 

RACHEL’S  Secret .  75 

RAYMOND’S  Heroine .  5C 

READE’S  (Charles)  Hard  Cash.  Ill’s .  50 

Cloth  1  00 

A  Simpleton .  50 

Cloth  1  00 

Griffith  Gaunt.  Illustrations .  25 

It  is  Never  Too  Late  to  Mend .  50 

Love  Me  Little,  Love  Me  Long .  50 

12m  o  1  00 

Foul  Play .  25 

White  Lies .  50 

Peg  Woffington  and  Other  Tales .  50 

Put  Yourself  in  His  Place.  Illustrations.  75 


Cloth  1  25 
12mo  1  00 


A  Terrible  Temptation.  Illustrated....  50 

12mo  75 

The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth .  50 

The  Wandering  Heir.  Illustrations....  25 

Cloth  60 

RECOLLECTIONS  of  Eton.  Illustrated....  50 

REGENT’S  Daughter .  50 

RIDDELL’S  (Mrs.  J.  H.)  Maxwell  Drewitt.  75 

Phemie  Keller .  50 

Race  for  Wealth .  75 

A  Life’s  Assize .  50 

ROBINSON’S  (F.  W.)  For  Her  Sake.  Ill’s.  75 

A  Bridge  of  Glass .  50 

Carry’s  Confession .  75 

Christie’s  Faith .  12mo  1  75 

Her  Face  was  Her  Fortune .  50 

Little  Kate  Kirby.  Illustrations .  75 

Mattie:  a  Stray .  75 

No  Man’s  Friend .  75 

Poor  Humanity .  50 

Second-Cousin  Sarah.  Illustrations .  75 

Stern  Necessity .  50 

True  to  Herself .  50 

A  Girl’s  Romance,  and  Other  Stories....  50 

ROMANCE  and  its  Hero,  The . 12mo  1  25 

ROWCROFT’S  The  Bush  Ranger .  50 

SACRISTAN’S  Household,  The.  Illustrated.  75 

SALA’S  Quite  Alone . 75 

SAUNDERS’S  Abel  Drake’s  Wife .  75 

Bound  to  the  Wheel .  75 

Hirell . 50 

Martin  Pole .  50 


SEDGWICK’S (Miss)Hope Leslie. 2 vols.l2mo  3  00 

The  Linwoods . 2  vols.  12mo  3  00 

Live  and  Let  Live . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

Married  or  Single? . 2  vols.  12mo  3  00 

Means  and  Ends . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

Poor  Rich  Man  and  Rich  Poor  Man.... 

18mo,  Cloth  75 
Stories  for  lroung  Persons... 18mo,  Cloth  75 

Tales  of  Glauber  Spa . 12mo  1  50 

Wilton  Harvey  and  Other  Talcs...  18mo, 

Cloth  75 

SEDGWICK’S  (Mrs.)  Walter  Thornley.l2mo  1  50 

SELF . ’ .  75 

SEWELL’S  (Miss)  Amy  Herbert .  50 


FRIGE 

SHERWOOD'S  (Mrs.)  Henry  Milner. 2  vols. 

12mo.$>3  00 

Lady  of  the  Manor . 4  vols.  12mo  6  00 

Roxobel . 3  vols.  18mo, Cloth  2  25 

Fairchild  Family . . . 12mo  1  50 

John  Marten . 12mo  1  50 

SHERWOOD’S  (Mrs.)  Works.  Engravings. 

16  Vols.,  12mo,  Cloth,  per  vol.  1  50 

The  Volumes  sold  separately  or  in  sets. 

Vol.  I.  The  Historv  of  Henrv  Mil- 
*  ¥ 

ner,  Parts  L,  II.,  and  III. 

Vol.  II.  Fairchild  Family  ;  Orphans 
of  Normandy  ;  The  Latter  Days,  &c. 

Vol.  III.  Little  Henry  and  his  Bear¬ 
er;  Lucy  and  her  Dhaye  ;  Memoirs 
of  Sergeant  Dale,  his  Daughter,  and  , 
the  Orphan  Mary ;  Susan  Gray ;  Lucy 
Clare;  Theophilus  and  Sophia;  Abdal¬ 
lah,  the  Merchant  of  Bagdad. 

Vol.  IV.  The  Indian  Pilgrim;  The 
Broken  Hyacinth ;  the  Babes  in  the 
Wood  of  the  New  World;  Catherine 
Seward ;  The  Little  Beggars,  &c. 

Vol.  V.  The  Infant’s  Progress  ;  The 
Flowers  of  the  Forest ;  Ermina,  &c. 

Vol.  VI.  The  Governess  ;  The  Lit¬ 
tle  Motniere  ;  The  Stranger  at  Home ; 

Pere  la  Chaise ;  English  Mary ;  My 
Uncle  Timothy. 

Vol.  VII. The  Nun ;  Intimate  Friends ; 

My  Aunt  Kate ;  Emeline  ;  Obedience  ; 

The  Gipsy  Babes ;  The  Basket-maker ; 

The  Butterfly,  &c. 

Vol.  VIII.  Victoria;  Arzoomund; 

The  Birth-Day  Present ;  The  Errand 
Boy;  The  Orphan  Boy;  The  Two  Sis¬ 
ters;  Julian  Percival ;  Edward  Mans¬ 
field;  The  Infirmary ;  The  Young  For¬ 
ester;  BitterSweet;  Common  Errors, 

&c. 

Vol.  IX.,  X.,  XI.,  and  XII.  The 
Lady  of  the  Manor. 

Vol.  XIII.  The  Mail-Coach  ;  My 
Three  Uncles;  The  Old  Lady’s  Com- 
•  plaint;  The  Shepherd’s  Fountain; 

The  Hours  of  Infancy;  Economy; 

Old  Things  and  New  Things;  The 
Swiss  Cottage  ;  The  Infant’s  Grave  ; 

The  Father’s  Eye  ;  Dudley  Castle ; 

The  Blessed  Family  ;  Caroline  Mor- 
daunt,  &c. 

Vol.  XIV.  The  Monk  of  Cimies; 

The  Rosary,  or  Rosee  of  Montreux ; 

The  Roman  Baths ;  Saint  Hospice ; 

The  Violet  Leaf;  The  Convent  of  St. 

Clair. 

Vol.  XV.  The  History  of  Henry 
Milner,  Part  IV.  ;  Sabbaths  on  the 


Continent ;  The  Idler. 

Vol.  XVI.  John  Marten. 

SLIIP  Ahoy  !  Illustrated . $  40 

SINCLAIR’S  (Miss)  Sir  Edward  Graham...  1  00 

SMITH’S  (Horace)  Adam  Brown .  50 

Arthur  Arundel .  50 

Love  and  Mesmerism .  75 

SMOLLETT’S  Humphrey  Clinker . 12mo  1  50 

SPINDLER’S  The  Jew.] .  75 

STANDISH  the  Puritan . 12mo  1  50 

STEELE’S  So  Runs  the  World  Away .  50 


A  Complete  List  of  Novels  published  by  Harper  Brothers. 


V  (  ( 

i  | 
1 


PRICE 

ST.  OLAYES . $  75 

STONE  Edge .  25 

SUE’S  Arthur .  75 

Commander  of  Malta .  50 

De  Rohan .  50 

TALBOT’S  Through  Fire  and  Water.  Ill’s.  25 

TALES  from  the  German .  50 

TEFFT’S  The  Shoulder  Knot . 12mo  1  50 

TEMME’S  Anna  Hammer .  50 

THACKERAY’S  (Miss)  Complete  W^rks. ...  1  25 

Illustrations.  Cloth  1  75 

Old  Kensington.  Illustrations .  1  00 

Tillage  on  the  Cliff. .  25 

THACKERAY’S  (W.  M.)  Novels. 

Vanity  Fair.  Illustrations .  50 

Cloth  1  00 

Library  Edition,  B  vols  ,  Crown  8vo  7  50 

Pendennis.  Illustrations .  75 

*  12mo  1  25 

2  vols.  8vo  Cloth  2  00 

The  Virginians.  Illustrations .  75 

Cloth  1  25 

The  Newcomes.  •  Illustrations .  75 


Cloth  1  25 

The  Adventures  of  Philip.  Illustrations.  50 

Cloth  1  00 

Henry  Esmond  and  Lovel  the  Widower. 


Illustrations .  75 

Denis  Duval.  Illustrations .  50 

Great  Hoggarty  Diamond . ; .  25 

THOMAS’S  (Miss  Annie)  Called  to  Account.  50 

A  Passion  in  Tatters .  75 

Denis  Donne .  50 

False  Colors .  . 50 

“‘He  Cometh  Not,’  She  Said”.. .  50 

Maud  Mohan .  25 

On  Guard .  50 

Only  Herself .  50 

Played  Out .  75 

Playing  for  High  Stakes.  Illustrations  25 

The  Dower  House .  50 

Theo  Leigh .  50 

The  Two  Widows .  50 

Walter  Goring .  75 

(Miss  Martha  M.)  Life’s  Lesson. ...12mo  1  50 

THOMPSON’S  (Mrs.)  Lady  of  Milan .  75 

TIECK’S  The  Elves .  50 

TOM  Brown’s  School  Days.  By  An  Old  Boy. 

Illustrated .  50 

TOM  Brown  at  Oxford.  Illustrations .  75 

The  two  in  One  Volume  1  50 
TROLLOPE’S  (Anthony)  The  Belton  Estate  50 

The  Bertrams . 12mo  1  50 

Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson .  50 

Can  You  Forgive  Her  ? .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

Castle  Richmond . 12mo  1  50 

Claverings.  Illustrations .  50 

Cloth  1  00 

Doctor  Thorne . 12mo  1  50 

Framley  Parsonage.  Illustrations..  12mo  1  75 

Harry  Heathcote  of  Gangoil .  25 

He  Knew  He  was  Right .  1  C'0 

Cloth  1  50 

The  Golden  Lion  of  Granpere.  Ill’s...  75 

Cloth  1  25 

Ladv  Anna .  50 


_  TRICE 

TROLLOPE’S  (Anthony)  Last  Chronicle  of 


Barset .  $i  50 

Cloth  2  00 

Miss  Mackenzie. . 50 

Phineas  Finn .  1  on 

’ciofh  1  75 

Phineas  Redux .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

The  Eustace  Diamonds .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

Orlev  Farm.  Illustrations .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

Rachel  Ray .  50 

Ralph  the  Heir.  Illustrations .  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

Sir  Harry  Hotspur  of  Humblethwaite. 

Engravings .  50 

The  Small  House  at  Allington.  Ill’s _  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

The  Three  Clerks . 12ino  1  50 

The  Vicar  of  Bullhampton.  Illustrations.  1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

The  Warden  and  Barchester  Towers. 

In  one  volume .  75 

(Mrs.)  Petticoat  Government .  50 

(T.  A.)  Lindisfarn  Chase .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

A  Siren . ; .  50 

Durnton  Abbey .  50 

Diamond  Cut  Diamond . 12mo  1  25 

TUTOR’S  Ward,  The .  50 

TWO  Families,  The . 12mo  1  50 

TYTLER’S  (Sarah)  The  Huguenot  Familv. 

12  mo  1  50 

UNDER  Foot.  Illustrated .  50 

UNDER  the  Ban . 1  25 

Cloth  1  75 

VERONICA .  50 

WARBURTON’S  Darien .  50 

Reginald  Hastings .  50 

WARREN’S  Diary  of  a  Physician. ...3  vols. 

lOmo,  Cloth  2  25 

Now  and  Then . 12mo  1  25 

WARD’S  Chatsworth .  50 

De  Vere . 12mo  1  50 

WEALTH  and  Worth . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

WHAT’S  to  be  Done? . 18mo,  Cloth  75 

WHEAT  and  Tares . 12mo  1  25 

WHICH  is  the  Heroine? . * .  50 

WHITE  Slave,  The . .....i .  1  00 

WHITE’S  Circe .  50 

WILKINSON’S  (Miss)  Hands  not  Hearts...  50 

WILLIAMS’S  The  Luttrells .  50 

WILLS’S  Notice  to  Quit .  50 

The  Wife’s  Evidence .  50 

WISE’S  Captain  Brand.  Illustrations .  1  50 

Cloth  2  00 

WOOD’S  (Mrs.  Henrv)  Danesburv  House. 

12mo  1  25 

WYOMING .  50 

YATES’S  Black  Sheep .  50 

Kissing  the  Rod .  75 

Land  at  Last .  50 

Wrecked  in  Port .  50 

Dr.  Wainwright’s  Patient .  50 

ZSCHOKKE’S  Veronica .  50 


Harper’s  Catalogue. 


The  attention  of  gentlemen,  in  town  or  country,  designing  to  form  Libraries 
or  enrich  their  Literary  Collections,  is  respectfully  invited  to  Harper's  Catalogue, 
which  will  be  found  to  comprise  a  large  proportion  of  the  standard  and  most  es¬ 
teemed  works  in  English  and  Classical  Literature — comprehending  over  three 
thousand  volumes — which  are  offered,  in  most  instances,  at  less  than  one-half 
the  cost  of  similar  productions  in  England. 

To  Librarians  and  others  connected  with  Colleges,  Schools,  &:c..  who  may 
not  have  access  to  a  trustworthy  guide  in  forming  the  true  estimate  of  literary 
productions,  it  is  believed  this  Catalogue  will  prove  especially  valuable  for  refer¬ 
ence. 

To  prevent  disappointment,  it  is  suggested  that,  whenever  books  can  not  be 
obtained  through  any  bookseller  or  local  agent,  applications  with  remittance 
should  be  addressed  direct  to  Harper  &:  Brothers,  which  will  receive  prompt  at 
tention. 


Sent  by  mail  on  receipt  of  Ten  Cents  in  postage  stamps. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

Franklin  Square,  New  York. 


Address 


